


Book Four: The Thawfest Tournament

by Chasingstardust22



Series: Hiccup Haddock [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Abuse/Mentions of Abuse, Minor Violence, References to Sex, Swearing, Updates on Mondays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-03-05 12:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13387947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chasingstardust22/pseuds/Chasingstardust22
Summary: As his fourth year at the Berk Dragon Academy for Vikings and Valkyries approaches, all Hiccup Haddock wants is for it to be uneventful—nothing at all like his first three years. Alas, fate appears to have other plans.For the first time in years, Berk is hosting Thawfest, an ancient tournament consisting of three dangerous tasks. Two other schools are also participating, exposing the students of Berk to new people and new ways of learning.Hiccup has no interest in entering the tournament, but when the champions are selected, his name is called. He has no choice—he must participate.





	1. The Sidduvb House

**Ladies and gentlemen (or whatever the case may be), welcome back to the Hiccup Haddock series! Did you miss it? I sure did. Not updating last week felt...wrong on several levels.**

**Book Four is the first book in this series that never made it to FanFiction.net, and as such, it has a special place in my heart. Plus, this is one has a _lot_ of changes in it. Not quite the game-changers that happened in Book Three, but still. It's gonna be fun!**

**I hope.**

**Disclaimer :  **I, Chasingstardust22, do not own Harry Potter or any of its copyrighted characters. I also do not own How To Train Your Dragon or any of _its_ copyrighted characters. I make no money off of this project, nor do I want to. All rights go to the respective owners, and please, _please_ go read/watch the original source material, because it's so much better than anything I could write.****

**Ya'll ready for shit to get real?**

**Good. This is Book Four: The Thawfest Tournament.**

* * *

_Chapter One: The Sidduvb House_

* * *

The village of Little Hangleton still called it "the Sidduvb House", even though it had been many years since the Sidduvb family had lived there. It stood on a hill overlooking the village, some of its windows boarded, several tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked all over its face. It had once been a fine-looking manor, easily the largest and most magnificent building for miles around, but the Sidduvb House was now wretched, neglected and completely unoccupied.

The Little Hangletons had all agreed that the old house was "very sinister". Roughly two decades ago, something strange and terrible had occurred there, something that older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss when topics of gossip grew scarce. The story had been picked over so many times, and been embroidered in so many places, that nobody was quite sure what the truth was any more. Every version of the tale, however, started in the same place: about twenty years before, at daybreak on a fine summer's morning, back when the Sidduvb House had still been well kept and impressive, Pala Prendonson, their tenderhearted maid, had entered the drawing-room to find all three of the Sidduvbs dead.

The poor young woman had run down the hill into the village, screaming all the while, and roused as many as she could.

"Laying there with their eyes wide open! Colder than ice! Still in their dinner things!"

The police were summoned at once, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel sorry about the Sidduvbs, for they had been rather unpopular. Elderly Mr and Mrs. Sidduvb had been rich, snobbish and generally unpleasant, and their grown-up son, Sven, had been, if anything, even worse. All the villagers cared about was the identity of their murderer—plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night.

The Hanged Man, the village pub, did roaring trade that night; the whole village had turned out to discuss the murders. They were rewarded for leaving their firesides when the Sidduvb's cook arrived dramatically in their midst, one arm wrapped around the sobbing Pala, and announced to the suddenly silent pub that a man called Finn Bryson had just been arrested.

"Finn!" several people cried in shock. "Never!"

Finn Bryson was the Sidduvb’s' gardener. He lived alone in a run-down cottage on the Sidduvb House grounds. Finn had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and great dislike of crowds and loud noises, and he had been working for the Sidduvbs ever since.

There was a rush to buy the cook drinks, and hear more details.

"Always thought he was a bit odd," she told the eagerly listening villages, after her fourth sherry. "Unfriendly, like. I'm sure if I offered him a cuppa once, I offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn't."

"N-now Grethe, see here," Pala stuttered, "he had a hard war, Finn. He likes the quiet life. There—There's really no reason to—"

"Who else had a key to the back door, then?" Grethe barked. "There's been a spare key hanging in the gardener's cottage far back as I can remember! Nobody forced the door last night! There were no broken windows! All Finn would’ve had to do was creep up to the big house while we were all sleeping…"

The villagers exchanged dark looks.

"I always thought he had a nasty look about him, right enough," a man at the bar grunted.

"War turned him funny, if you ask me," the landlord said.

"Told you I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of Finn, didn't I, Dotta?" an excited woman in the corner said to her friend

"Horrible temper," Dotta agreed, nodding fervently, "I remember, when he was a kid…"

By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Finn Bryson had killed the Sidduvbs.

But over in the neighboring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Finn was stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was innocent. He claimed that the only person he had seen near the house on the day of the Sidduvb’s' deaths had been a teenage boy; a stranger, dark-haired and pale. Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and the police were quite sure that Finn invented him.

Then, just when things were looking very serious for Finn, the report on the Sidduvb’s' bodies came back and changed everything.

The police had never read an odder report. A whole team of doctors had examined the bodies three times over, and had concluded that none of the Sidduvb’s had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, suffocated, or (as far as they could tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Sidduvbs all appeared to be in perfect health—apart from the fact they were all dead. The doctors _did_ note (as though determined to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Sidduvb’s had a look of terror upon his or her face—but as the frustrated police said, whoever heard of three people being _frightened_ to death?

As there was no proof that the Sidduvb’s had been murdered at all, the police had no choice but to let Finn go. Per tradition, the Sidduvbs were burnt at the lake near Little Hangleton, and then buried in the local graveyard. Their graves remained objects of curiosity for years. To everyone's surprise, and amidst a cloud of suspicion, Finn Bryson returned to his cottage in the grounds of the Sidduvb House.

"'S'far as I'm concerned, he killed them, and I don't care what the police say," Grethe declared. "And if he had any decency, he’d leave here, knowing as how we knows he did it."

But Finn did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Sidduvb’s House, and then the next—for neither family stayed longer than a year. Perhaps it was partly because of Finn that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall into disrepair.

* * *

The wealthy man who owned the Sidduvb’s House these days neither lived there nor put it to any use; they said in the village that he kept it for "tax reasons", though nobody was very clear what those might be. The wealthy owner continued to pay Finn to do the gardening, however. Finn was nearing his Seventy-seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but he could be seen plotting around the flowerbeds in fine weather, even though the weeds were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to suppress them.

Weeds were not the only thing Finn had to contend with, either. Children from the village had made a habit of throwing stones through the windows of the Sidduvb House at least once a week. They rode their bicycles over the lawns Finn worked so hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they even broke into the old house for a dare. They all knew that old Finn’s devotion to the house and grounds amounted almost to an obsession, and it amused them to no end to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them.

Finn, for his part, believed the children tormented him because they, like their parents and grandparents, thought him a murderer. Everyone had heard the stories a dozen times over, and to his knowledge no one had ever taken his side. So when Finn awoke one night in August, and saw something very odd up at the old house, he merely assumed that the boys had gone one step further in the attempt to punish him.

It was Finn's bad leg that had woken him; it was paining him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and slowly limped downstairs into the kitchen, with the idea of re-filling his hot-water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he looked up at the Sidduvb House and saw what looked like flames glimmering in its upper windows. Finn knew at once what was going on. Some children had broken into the house again, and this time they had started a fire.

Finn had no telephone, and in any case, he had deeply mistrusted the police ever since they had taken him in for questioning about the Sidduvbs' deaths. He put down the kettle at once, hurried back upstairs as fast as his bad leg would allow, and was soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing a rusty old key from its hook by the door. He picked up his walking stick, which was propped against the wall, and set off into the night.

The front door of the Sidduvb House bore no sign of being forced, nor did any of the windows appear broken. Finn limped around to the back of the house until he reached the door almost completely hidden by ivy. He took out the old key, put it into the lock, and opened the door noiselessly.

He let himself into the cavernous kitchen. Finn had not entered it for many years; nevertheless, although it was very dark, he still remembered where the door in the hall was, and he groped his way towards it, his ears pricked for any sound of footsteps or voices from overhead. He reached the hall, which was little lighter owing to the large mullioned windows on either side of the front door, and started to climb the stairs, blessing the dust which lay several inches thick upon the stone, for it muffled the sound of his feet and stick.

On the landing, Finn turned right, and saw at once where the intruders were: at the very end of the passage door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Finn edged closer and closer, grasping his walking stick firmly. Several feet from the entrance, he was able to see a narrow slice of the room beyond.

The fire, he now saw, had been lit in the grate. He stopped moving and listened intently, for a man's voice spoke within the room; it sounded timid and fearful.

"There is a little more in the tankard, my Lord, if you're still hungry."

"Later," a second voice said. This, too, belonged to a man—but it was very deep and booming, and as cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Finn's neck stand up. "Move me close to the fire, Savage."

Finn turned his right ear towards the door, the better to hear. There came the chink of a tankard being put down upon some hard surface, and then the dull scraping noise of a heavy chair being dragged across the floor. Finn caught a glimpse of a small man, his back to the door, pushing the chair into place. He was wearing ragged clothing and a dented metal shoulder guard, and a Viking helmet sat on top of his head. Then he disappeared from sight again.

"Where is Massacre?" the cold voice asked.

"I—I don't know, my Lord," the first voice said nervously. "She set out to explore the house, I think…"

"You will collect more of her venom before we retire, Savage," the second voice said. "I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly."

"Y-yes, my Lord…I will do so as soon as she returns…"

Brow furrowed, Finn inclined his good ear still closer to the door, listening very hard. There was a pause, and then the man called Savage spoke again.

"My Lord, may I ask how long were going to stay here?"

"A week," the cold voice said. "Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Dragon Racing World Cup is over."

Finn inserted a gnarled finger into the ear and rotated it. Owing, no doubt, to a buildup of wax, he had heard the word 'Dragon', which would be impossible, because dragons did not exist.

"The—the Dragon Racing World Cup, my Lord?" Savage said. (Finn dug his finger still more vigorously into his ear.) "Forgive me, my Lord, but—I’m afraid I don’t understand—why should we wait until the World Cup is over?"

"Because, fool, at this very moment Vikings are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Dragon Ministry will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest Muggles notice anything. So we wait."

Finn stopped trying to clean his ear out. He had distinctly heard the words 'Dragon Ministry', 'Vikings' and 'Muggles'. Plainly, each of these expressions meant something secret, and Finn could think of only two sorts of people who would speak in codes: spies and criminals. Finn tightened his hold on his walking stick once more, and listened more closely still.

"Your Lordship is still determined, then?" Savage said quietly.

"Certainly I am determined, Savage." There was a note of menace in his cold voice.

A slight pause followed—and Savage spoke, the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he was forcing himself to say this before he lost his nerve.

"It could be done without Hiccup Haddock, my Lord."

Another pause, more protracted, and then—

"Without Hiccup Haddock?" the second voice breathed softly. "I see…"

"My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!" Savage exclaimed, his voice rising squeakily. "The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is mainly that if we were to use another Viking—any Viking—the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while—you know that I can disguise myself most effectively—I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person—"

"I could use another Viking," the first voice said slowly, "that is true…"

"My Lord, it makes sense," Savage went on, sounding thoroughly relieved now. "Laying hands on Hiccup Haddock would be almost impossible, he is so well protected—"

"And so you volunteer to go and fetch me as substitute? How kind…the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, hasn’t it Savage? Perhaps this suggestion of abandoning the plan is nothing more than a desperate attempt to desert me…"

"My Lord! I-I have no wish to leave you, none at all—"

"Don't lie to me," the second voice growled. "I can always tell, Savage…You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinching when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me…"

"No! My devotion to your Lordship—"

"Your ‘devotion’ is nothing more than cowardice. You wouldn’t be here if you had anywhere else to go. How am I to survive without you, when I still require feeding every few hours? Who is to collect Massacre’s venom and bleed the fish?"

"But you seem so much stronger, my Lord—"

"Liar," the second voice snarled. "I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of what meager amount of health I have regained under your clumsy care. _Silence!_ "

Savage, who had been spluttering incoherently, fell silent at once. For a few seconds, Finn could hear nothing but the fire crackling. Then the second man spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost hissing.

"As I have already explained to you, I have my reasons for using the boy, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years; a few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Savage—courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Drago Bludvist's wrath—"

"My Lord, I must speak!" Savage said, panic in his voice now. "All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head—my Lord, Bjorg the Absent-minded's disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I—"

"If?" the first voice whispered. " _If?_ _If_ you follow the plan, Savage, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has disappeared. You will do it quietly, and without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but in my present condition…come, Savage, one more obstacle removed, and our path to Hiccup Haddock is clear. I'm not unreasonable; I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my _faithful_ servant will have rejoined us—"

" _I_ am a faithful servant," Savage muttered, the merest trace of sullenness in his voice.

"Savage, I need someone with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill neither of those requirements."

"I found you," Savage said, and there was definitely a sulky edge to his voice now. " _I_ was the one who found you, not him. And _I_ was the one who brought you Bjorg the Absent-minded."

"That is true," the second man said, sounding amused. "A stroke of brilliance I would never have thought possible from you, Savage—though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she could be when you caught her, were you?"

"I—I _thought_ she might be useful, my Lord—"

"Liar," the first voice said again, the cruel amusement more pronounced than ever. "However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Savage. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform…"

"R-really, my Lord? What—?" Savage sounded terrified again.

"Ah, Savage, surely you don't want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end…but I promise you, you will have the honor of being just every bit as useful as Bjorg the Absent-minded was."

"You…you…" Savage's voice sounded suddenly hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. "You…are going…to kill me, too?"

"Savage, Savage," the cold voice chuckled darkly, "why would I kill you? I killed Bjorg because I _had_ to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, very much useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with news that she had met you on her holidays. Vikings who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Dragon Ministry Valkyries at wayside inns…"

Savage muttered something so quietly that Finn could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh—an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech.

" _We could have modified her memory?_ But Memory Magic can be broken by a powerful Viking, as I proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her _memory_ not to use the information I extracted from her, Savage."

Out in the corridor, Finn suddenly became aware that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a woman. He was talking about it without any kind of remorse—with _amusement_. He was dangerous—a madman. And he was planning more murders—this boy, Hiccup Haddock, whoever he was—was in danger—

Finn knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the time to go to the police. He would creep out of the house and head straight for the telephone box in the village…but the cold voice spoke again, and Finn remained where he was, frozen to the spot, listening with all his might.

"One more obstacle gone…my faithful servant at Berk…Hiccup Haddock is a good as mine, Savage. It is decided. There will no more argument. But quiet…I think I hear Massacre…"

And the second man's voice changed. He started making noises such as Finn never heard before; he was growling and spitting without drawing breath. Finn thought he must be having some sort of fit or seizure.

And then Finn heard movement behind him in the dark passageway. He turned to look behind him, and found himself paralyzed with fright.

Something was slithering towards him along the dark corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of firelight, he realized with a thrill of terror that it was a large snake. Horrified, transfixed, Finn stared at it as its undulating body cut a wide, curving track through the thick dust on the floor, coming closer and closer—what was he to do? The only means of escape was into the room where two men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where he was the snake would surely kill him—

But before he had made his decision, the snake was level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it was passing; it was following the spitting, growling noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had vanished through the gap.

There was sweat on Finn's forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to growl, and Finn was visited by a strange, entirely impossible idea… _This man could talk to snakes_.

Finn didn't understand what was going on. He wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with his hot-water bottle. But his legs didn't seem to want to move. As he stood there shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice switched abruptly to English again.

"Massacre has interesting news, Savage," it said.

"In-indeed, my Lord?" Savage squeaked.

"Indeed, yes," the voice said. "According to her, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say."

Finn didn't have a chance to hide himself. There were footsteps, and then the door of the room was flung wide open.

A short, balding man with greying hair, a fat noise and small, watery eyes stood before Finn, a mixture of fear and alarm on his face.

"Invite him inside, Savage. Where are your manners?"

The cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair before the fire, but Finn couldn't see the speaker. The snake, on the other hand, was curled up on the dusty hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet dog.

With a look of terror, Savage grabbed a hold of Finn’s arm and roughly yanked him over the threshold. The walking stick only just managed to keep him steady.

The fire was the only source of light in the room; it cast long, spidery shadows upon the walls. Finn stared at the back of the armchair; the man inside it seemed to be even smaller than his servant, for Finn couldn’t even see the back of his head.

"You heard everything, Muggle?" the cold voice said.

"What's that you’re calling me?" Frank said defiantly. Now that he was inside the room, now that the time had come for some sort of action, he felt a bit braver; it had always been so in the war.

"I am calling you a Muggle," the voice said coolly. "It means that you are not a Viking."

"I don't know what you mean by Viking," Finn said, his voice growing steadier. "All I know is I've heard enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You’ve done murder, and you’re planning more! And I’ll tell you this too," he added, on a sudden inspiration, "my wife Grethe knows I’m up here, and if I don’t come back—"

"You have no wife," the cold voice said, very quietly. "Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you were coming. There is no one out there who would worry for your safety. A lesson to you, Muggle…Do not lie to Drago Bludvist…for he always knows…"

"Is that right?" Finn said roughly. "Drago Bludvist, is it? Lord Drago Bludvist? Well, I don’t think much of your manners, _My Lord_. Turn ’round and face me like a man, why don’t you?"

"I am not a man, Muggle," Drago Bludvist said, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. "I am much, _much_ greater than a mere man. But I will face you, Muggle, if that is what you so desire…Savage, turn my chair around."

The servant gave a whimper.

"That wasn’t a request, Savage. Turn the chair, or you’ll be getting Massacre’s venom out of your own body."

Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would rather have done anything else, the small man pulled out what appeared to be a club carved from a bone. With a wince, he pointed it at the chair.

"What the Helheim—"

And then the chair spun around on its own until it faced Finn, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clutter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. The thing in the chair then raised a bullhook. There was a flash of green flames, a rushing sound, and Finn Bryson crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Two hundred miles away, the boy called Hiccup Haddock awoke with a start.

* * *

**Rest in peace, Finn...er, as peacefully as a death like that can grant you, at least.**

**We're not told what Voldie was being fed in the original (we know about the milking of Nagini, but not what else goes in there), but in this version, it involves Terrible Terror venom and fish blood, mixed together with some water and boiled.**

**Yuck.**

**Highlight of chapter: The history of Little Hangleton. Pretty sure most of the work I did on this chapter was devoted to that section.**

**Any suggestions for what I should do in future chapters/books? Feel free to let me know; odds are that I'll use it. Credit is always given at the end of the chapter.**

**Remember to comment, bookmark, and/or leave a kudos—everyone who does gets a shout-out at the end!**

**That's all for now. See you next week! ♥**


	2. The Scar

***collapses upon the floor* Regents suck and I hate them.**

**In better news, I got Dragon Story! And let me tell you, it is _addictive_.**

**On with the story!**

* * *

_Chapter Two: The Scar_

* * *

Hiccup lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had just run a mile. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, shaped distinctly like a bolt of lightning, was aching beneath his fingers, as though someone had been trying to pull it apart.

He sat up, running his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his emerald green eyes puzzled under his untidy auburn hair. He examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked fine, but it was still aching.

Closing the wardrobe, Hiccup tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real…there had been two people he knew, and one he didn't…he concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember…

The dim picture of a darkened room came to him…there had been a big terrible terror on a hearth-rug…a small man called Savage…and a cold, deep voice…the voice of Drago Bludvist. Hiccup felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought.

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Drago had looked like, but it was impossible…all Hiccup knew was that at the moment when Drago's chair had spun around, and he, Hiccup, seeing what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror which had woken him…or had that been the pain in his scar?

And who have the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Hiccup had watched him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused. Hiccup put his face into his hands, trying to remember that dimly lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away faster than he could latch onto them…Drago and Savage had been talking about someone they had killed, though Hiccup could not remember the name…and they had been plotting to kill someone else… _him_ …

Hiccup took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes and stared around his bedroom as though expecting to see something unusual there. As it happened, there were an extraordinary number of unusual things in this room. A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, a saddle, a fur cape and assorted spell books. Rolls of parchment littered one part of his desk, his sketchbook and charcoal another, and the rest was taken up by the large, empty cage in which his Terrible Terrors, Sharpshot and Blood-spatter, usually perched. On the floor beside his bed a book laid open; he had been reading it before he fell asleep the previous night. The pictures in the book were all moving. Women in bright dark green clothing were zooming in and out on dragons, throwing a white ball to each other.

Hiccup walked over to this book, picked it up and watched one of the Valkyries score a spectacular goal by putting the ball through a basket fifty-feet in the air. Then he snapped the book shut. Even Dragon Racing—which was, in Hiccup's opinion, the best sport in the world—couldn't distract him at the moment. He placed _The Holyhead Harpies_ on his bedside table, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the street below.

Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street could be expected to look in the early hours of Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed, and as far as Hiccup could see from the darkness, there wasn't a living creature outside, not even the pup that he was looking for.

And yet…and yet…restless, Hiccup went back to his bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his scar again. It wasn't the pain itself that bothered him; Hiccup was no stranger to pain and injury. He had lost all the bones from his left arm once, and had them painfully regrown in a night. That same arm had been pierced by a venomous, foot-long fang not long afterwards. Only last year Hiccup had fallen fifty feet from his Night Fury, Toothless. He was used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended the Berk Dragon Academy for Vikings and Valkyries, and had a knack for attracting danger.

No, the thing that was bothering Hiccup was that the last time his scar had hurt him, it had been because Drago had been close by…but Drago couldn't be here, now…the idea of Drago lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible…

Hiccup listened closely to the silence around him. Was he expecting to hear the creak of a stair, or the swish of a cape? And then he jumped slightly as he heard his cousin Balder give a tremendous grunting snore from the next room.

Hiccup shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. There was no one in the house with him except Uncle Björn, Aunt SkaÐi, Raghilda and Balder, and they were all plainly still asleep, their dreams untouched and painless.

(Or at least, he hoped Raghilda's dreams were OK)

Asleep was the way Hiccup liked the Dalvors best; it wasn't as though they were ever any help to him awake. Uncle Björn, aunt SkaÐi, and Balder were Hiccup's only living relatives. They were Muggles (non-magical people) who hated and despised magic in any form, which meant that Hiccup and his godsister Raghilda were about as welcome in their house as dry rot. They had explained away Hiccup's long absences at Berk over the last three years by telling everyone that he went to Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. As for Raghilda, who had only been staying for a few weeks so far, they had refused to let her go outside in human form…which meant nothing, because Raghilda had absolutely no regard for rules (in her own words, "I am the daughter of Alvin, I don't _do_ rules").

The Dalvors knew perfectly well that, as an underaged Viking, Hiccup wasn't allowed to use magic outside Berk, but they were still apt to blame him or Raghilda for anything that went wrong about the house. Hiccup had never been able to confide in them, or tell them anything about his life in the Viking world. The very idea of doing to the Dalvors when they awoke, and telling them about his scar hurting him, and about his worries about Drago, was laughable.

And yet it was because of Drago that Hiccup had come to live with the Dalvors in the first place. If it hadn't been for Drago, Hiccup would not have the lightning scar on his forehead. If it hadn't been for Drago, Hiccup would still have his parents…

Hiccup had only been a year old the night that Drago Bludvist—the most powerful Viking tyrant for a century, a Viking who had been gaining power steadily for several years—arrived at his house and killed his father and mother. Drago had then turned his bullhook on Hiccup; he had performed a curse strong enough to kill a fully-grown dragon, a curse that had disposed of many capable Vikings and Valkyries—and, incredibly, _it had not worked_. Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had rebounded upon Drago. Hiccup had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead, and Drago had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, Drago had fled; the terror in which the secret community of Vikings and Valkyries had lived for so long had lifted, Drago’s followers had disbanded, and Hiccup Haddock had become famous.

It had been enough of a shock for Hiccup to discover, on his eleventh birthday, that he was a Viking; it had been even more disconcerting to find out that everyone in the hidden Viking world knew his name. Hiccup had arrived at Berk to find that, for better or worse, heads turned and whispers followed him everywhere he went. But he was used to it now: at the end of this summer, he would be starting his fourth year at Berk, and he was already counting the days until he could be back at the Fort again.

But there was still a fortnight to go before he went back to the Academy. He looked hopelessly around his room again, and his eyes paused on the birthday cards his two best friends had sent him at the end of July. What would they say if he wrote to them and told them about his scar hurting?

At once, Ragnar Wicket's voice filled his head, concerned and a little bit shrill.

" _Your scar hurt? Hiccup, that's really serious…You should write to Alvis! I'll go and check C_ ommon Magical Ailments and Afflictions… _I think  there's something in there about cursed scars_ …"

Yes, that would be Ragnar's advice: go straight to the Headmaster of Berk, and in the meantime, consult a book. Hiccup stared out of the window at the inky, blue-black sky. He doubted very much whether a book could help him now. As far as he knew, he was the only living person to have survived a curse like Drago's; it was highly unlikely, therefore, that he would find his symptoms listed in _Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions_. As for informing the Headmaster, Hiccup had no idea where Alvis went during the summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Alvis, with his long silver beard, in his Viking clothing, a Vikings helmet with horns and axe prosthetic on his right arm, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion on his nose. Of course, wherever Alvis was, Hiccup was sure that Sharpshot or Blood-Spatter would be able to find him; the Terrible Terrors had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without an address. But what would he write?

_Dear Alvis the Noble,_

_Sorry to bother you during the summer holidays, but my scar hurt this morning._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III._

Even inside his head, the words sounded stupid.

And so he tried to imagine his other best friend, and not-so-secret crush, Astrid Hofferson's reaction, and in a moment, Astrid’s button nosed, soft face seemed to swim before Hiccup, wearing a bemused expression.

" _Your scar hurt? But…but the Dragon Lord can't be near you now, can he? There’s no way…_ (the confused expression turned to one of alarm) _Oh who am I kidding, of course there is…Hold tight, I’ll be there as soon as I can."_

Friendship with Raghilda had made Astrid far more accepting of premonitions. She certainly wouldn’t blow him off, or look for a more "reasonable explanation". He knew she would try her best to help him.

But he also knew that she would tell her family, and he didn't like the idea of the whole Hofferson family knowing that he was getting jumpy about a few moments' pain. Mrs. Hofferson would fuss over him, and Double and Trouble, Astrid’s sixteen-year-old twin brothers, might think Hiccup was losing his nerve. The Hoffersons were Hiccup's favourite family in the world; he was hoping that they might invite him and Raghilda to stay any time now (Astrid had mentioned something about the Dragon Racing World Cup), and he somehow didn't want his visit punctuated with anxious enquiries about his scar.

Raghilda was out of the question; his godsister had enough on her plate without him going to her about scar pains. The last thing he wanted to do was give her any additional stress. Besides, she hadn’t given any indication that she knew about this happening, so it couldn’t be that important.

Hiccup kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. What he really wanted (and it felt almost shameful to admit it to himself) was someone like—someone like a _parent_ : an adult Viking whose advice he could ask without feeling stupid or burdening, someone who cared about him, who had experience of Dark Magic…

And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, and so obvious, that he couldn't believe it had taken so long— _Alvin_.

Hiccup leapt from his bed, hurried across the room and sat down at his desk; he pushed aside his sketchbook, pulled a piece of parchment towards him, and loaded his eagle-feather quill with ink. He wrote _Dear Alvin_ , then paused, wondering how best to raise his problem and still marvelling at the fact that he didn't thought of Alvin straight away. But then, perhaps it wasn't so surprising—after all, he had only found out that Alvin was his godfather two months ago.

There was a simple reason for Alvin's complete absence from Hiccup's life until then—Alvin had been in Azkaban, the terrifying Viking prison guarded by creatures called Dementors, sightless, soul-sucking beans who came to search for Alvin at Berk when he and and his daughter Raghilda had escaped. Yet Alvin had been innocent—the murders of which he had been convicted had been committed by Savage, Drago's supporter, who nearly everyone now believed dead. Hiccup, Astrid and Ragnar knew otherwise, however; they had come to face-to-face with Savage the previous year, though only Alvis the Noble, Gobber the Belch and Phlegma the Fierce had believed their story.

For one glorious hour, Hiccup have believed that he was leaving the Dalvors at last, because Alvin had offered him a home once his name had been cleared. Alvin also happened to be Ragnar’s father, which meant they were like brothers. But the chance had been snatched away from him—Savage had escaped before they could take him to the Dragon Ministry, and Alvin had been forced to flee for his life. Hiccup, Ragnar and Raghilda had helped him escape on the back of his Whispering Death called Groundsplitter, and since then, Alvin had been on the run. The home Hiccup might have had if Savage had not escaped had been haunting him all summer. It had been doubly hard to return to the Dalvors knowing that he had so nearly escaped from them forever. Only Raghilda’s following him there had prevented him from attempting to run away again.

Nevertheless, Alvin had been of some help to Hiccup, even if he couldn't be with him. It was due to Alvin that Hiccup now had all his school things in his bedroom with him. The Dalvors had never allowed this before; their general wish of keeping Hiccup as miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his powers, had led them to lock his school trunk in the cupboard under the stairs every summer prior to this. But their attitude had changed since they had found out that Hiccup had a dangerous murderer for a godfather—for both Hiccup and Raghilda had left out the fact that Alvin was innocent.

They had received two letters from Alvin since they had been back at Privet Drive. Both have been delivered by Terrible Terrors with exotic colouring. This told Hiccup that Alvin was somewhere exotic, and he hoped that wherever Alvin was (Alvin never said, in case the letters were intercepted), he was enjoying himself. Somehow, Hiccup found it hard to imagine Dementors surviving long in bright sunlight; perhaps that was why Alvin had gone south. Alvin's letters, which were now hidden beneath the highly useful loose floorboards under Hiccup's bed, sounded remarkably cheerful, and in both of them he had reminded Hiccup to call him if ever Hiccup had to. Well, he needed to now, all right…

Hiccup’s lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold grey light that precedes sunlight slowly crept into the room. Finally, when the sun had risen, when his bedroom walls had turned gold and when the sounds of movement could be heard from Uncle Björn and Aunt SkaÐi's room, Hiccup cleared his desk of crumpled pieces of parchment, and re-read his finished letter.

_Dear Alvin,_

_Thanks for your last letter. That Terrible Terror was beautiful; its scales nearly blinded Raghilda and I._

_Things are same as usual here. Balder’s diet isn't going too well. My aunt found him smuggling donuts into his room yesterday. She was practically in tears when she told him they'd have to cut his pocket money if he keeps doing it. He got really angry and tossed his PlayStation out of the window. That’s a sort of computer thing you can play games on. Bit stupid of him, really; now he hasn't even got_ Mega-Mutilation Part Three _to take his mind off things._

_Raghilda and I are okay; mainly because the Dalvors are terrified you might show up and turn them all into bats if we asked you to. And no, I’m not exaggerating; Raghilda literally told them you could do that. She went into an incredible amount of detail about it, too._

_We’re fairly certain they hate her more than me at this point._

_A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar hurt again. Last time that happened, it was because Drago was at Berk. But I don't reckon he can be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if cursed scars sometimes hurt years afterwards?_

_I'll send this with Blood-Spatter when he gets back; he, Sharpshot and Amethyst are off hunting at the moment. Say hello to Groundsplitter for me._

_Hiccup._

Yes, Hiccup thought, that looked alright. There was no point in mentioning the dream; he didn't want it to look as though he was too worried.

There was a knock on the door. "Hiccup? Are you awake?"

It was Raghilda, no doubt already dressed and ready for the day ahead.

"I’ll be out in a few minutes," he called back. He folded the parchment up and laid it beside his sketchbook, ready for when Blood-Spatter returned. Then he got to his feet, stretched and opened his wardrobe once more. Without glancing at his reflection, he started to get dressed before going down to breakfast.

* * *

**Ah, a brand new day! Surely nothing out of the ordinary!**

***somehow managed to say that with a straight face***

**Highlight of chapter: "and they had been plotting to kill someone else… _him_ …"**

**(That was legitimately his _last_ concern, can we discuss this)**

**Also, Hiccup referring to Astrid as his "not-so-secret" crush. Like, she's basically the only one who** **_doesn't_ ** **know, man.**


	3. The Invitation

**We're almost at 100 hits.**

**It's only chapter three.**

**...How...?**

* * *

_Chapter Three: The Invitation_

* * *

By the time Hiccup and Raghilda arrived in the kitchen, the three Dalvors were already seated around the table. None of them looked up as the two entered or sat down in the same seat. Uncle Björn's large red face was hidden behind the morning's Daily Mail, and Aunt SkaÐi was cutting a grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her horse-like teeth.

Balder looked furious and sulky, and somehow seemed to be taking up even more space than usual. This was saying something, as he'd always taken up an entire side of the square table by himself. When Aunt SkaÐi put a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto Balder's plate with a tremulous "There you are Balder darling", Balder glowered at her. His life had taken a most unpleasant turn since he came home for the summer with his end-of-year report.

Uncle Björn and Aunt SkaÐi had managed to find excuses for his bad marks as usual; Aunt SkaÐi always insisted that Balder was a very gifted boy whose teachers didn't understand him, while Uncle Björn maintained that "pretty girls don’t like brains."

(Raghilda had been a little too quick to inform him that Hiccup was one of the smartest boys in their year, second only to her twin brother Ragnar, and there was an official  _ list _ of girls who wanted to be his girlfriend. Hiccup wasn't sure if she had made that up or not, but he was even less sure he wanted to hear the answer)

They had also skated over the accusations of bullying in the report—"He's a boisterous little boy, but he wouldn't hurt a fly!" Aunt SkaÐi had said tearfully, while Uncle Björn claimed that Hiccup was the reason Balder acted out from time to time.

However, at the bottom of the report there were few well-chosen comments from the school nurse which not even Uncle Björn and Aunt SkaÐi could explain away. No matter how much Aunt SkaÐi wailed that Balder was big-boned, and that his poundage was really puppy-fat, and that he was a growing boy who needed plenty of food, the fact remained that the school outfits didn't stock knickerbockers big enough for him anymore. The school nurse had seen what Aunt SkaÐi's eyes—so sharp when it came to spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in observing the comings and goings of the neighbors—simply refused to see: that, far from needing extra nourishment, Balder had reached roughly the size and weight of a young killer whale.

So—after many tantrums, after arguments that had shaken Hiccup and Raghilda's bedroom floors, and many,  _ many _ tears from Aunt SkaÐi—the new regime had begun. The diet sheet that had been sent by the Smelting school nurse had been taped on the fridge, which had been emptied of all of Balder's favorite things—fizzy drinks and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers—and filled instead with fruit and vegetables and the sort of things that Uncle Björn liked to call "rabbit food". To make Balder feel better about it all, Aunt SkaÐi had insisted the whole family all diet too. She now passed a grapefruit quarter to Hiccup. He noticed that it was a lot smaller than Balder's. Aunt SkaÐi seemed to feel that the best way to keep Balder's morale up was to make sure that he did, at least, get more to eat than Hiccup.

But Aunt SkaÐi didn't know what was hidden under the loose floorboard upstairs. She had no idea the god-siblings were not following the diet at all.

The moment he got wind of the fact that he and Raghilda, who was unhealthily thin as it was, were expected to survive the summer on carrot sticks, Hiccup had sent Sharpshot to his friends with pleas for help, and they had risen to the occasion magnificently. Sharpshot had returned from Ragnar's house with a large box stuffed with sugar-free snacks (Ragnar and Raghilda's mum was a dentist). Gobber, the Forge Master of Berk, had obliged with a sack full of his own home-made rock cakes (Hiccup didn't touch these; he had too much experience with Gobber's cooking. Raghilda was still looking to try and make them edible). Mrs. Hofferson, however, had sent the family Terrible Terror, Everwild, with an enormous fruitcake and assorted pastries. Poor Everwild, who was elderly and feeble, had needed five days of Raghilda’s non-stop care to recover from the journey. And then on Hiccup's birthday (which the Dalvors completely ignored as always) he had received four superb birthday cakes, one each from Astrid, Ragnar, Gobber and Alvin, alongside the gigantic one Raghilda had made herself. Hiccup still had two of them left, and so, looking forward to a real breakfast when he got back upstairs, he passed the grapefruit to Raghilda.

"Pour tu, mon ami," he said, for once not tripping over any of the words.

Raghilda chuckled. "Merci, mon frere."

A significant chunk of the summer had been spent by Raghilda teaching Hiccup French, the way her father had when she was younger. He wasn't very good, but Raghilda said he was learning fast.

Uncle Björn laid aside his paper with a deep sniff of disapproval and looked down at his own grapefruit quarter.

"Is this it?" he grumbled to Aunt SkaÐi. She gave him a severe look, and then nodded pointedly at Balder, who had already finished his grapefruit quarter, and was eyeing Raghilda's grapefruit with a very sour look in his piggy little eyes.

Uncle Björn gave a big sigh, which ruffled his large bushy moustache, and picked up a spoon.

The doorbell rang. Uncle Björn heaved himself out of his chair and set off down the hall. Quick as a flash, while his mother was occupied with the kettle, Balder stole the rest of Uncle Björn's grapefruit.

Hiccup heard talking at the door, and someone laughing, and Uncle Björn answering curtly. Then the front door closed, and the sound of ripping paper came from the hallway.

Aunt SkaÐi set the kettle down on the table and looked curiously around to see where Uncle Björn had got to. She didn't have to wait long to find out; after about a minute, he was back. He looked livid.

"You two," he barked at Hiccup and Raghilda. "Living room. Now."

Bewildered, wondering what on Midgard they were supposed to have done this time, Hiccup and Raghilda got up and followed Uncle Björn out of the kitchen and into the next room. Uncle Björn closed the door sharply behind both of them.

"So," he said, barging over to the fireplace and turning to face the pair as though he was about to pronounce them under arrest. "So."

Hiccup would have dearly loved to have said "So what?", but he didn’t feel that Uncle Björn's temper should be tested this early in the morning, especially when it was already under severe strain from lack of food. He therefore settled for looking politely puzzled, and jabbed Raghilda in the gut with his elbow so that she didn’t say it for him.

"This just arrived," Uncle Björn said. He brandished a piece of purple written paper at Hiccup. "A letter. About the two of you."

Hiccup's confusion increased. Who would be writing to Uncle Björn about  _ them _ ? Who did they know who delivered letters by postman? He glanced at Raghilda, hoping she’d know, but to his surprise and slight horror, she had a look of vague amusement upon her face.

Things that amused Raghilda were also things that irritated his uncle. This couldn’t end well.

Uncle Björn glared at them, then looked down at the letter, and in a falsetto voice he began to read aloud:

_ Dear Mr and Mrs. Dalvor, _

_ We’ve never been introduced, but I'm sure you have heard a great deal from Hiccup and Raghilda about my daughter, Astrid. _

_ As they might have told you, the final of the Dragon Racing World Cup takes place this Monday night, and my husband, Bjartr the Tinkering, has just managed to get prime tickets through his connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. _

_ I do hope you will allow us to take Hiccup and Raghilda to the match, as this really is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain hasn’t hosted the cup for over thirty years, and tickets are extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad to have them stay for the remainder of the summer holidays, and to see them safely onto the train back to school. _

_ It would be best for one of them to send us your answer as quickly as possible in the normal way. The Muggle postman has never delivered to our house; I’m not sure he even knows where it is. _

_ Hoping to see Hiccup and Raghilda soon, _

_ Yours sincerely, _

**_Ingrid Hofferson_ **

_ P.S. I hope we’ve put enough stamps on. _

With a grunt, Uncle Björn dropped the letter. He shoved a hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out something else.

"Look at this," he growled, brandishing it like a weapon.

This proved too much for Raghilda; she threw her head back and laughed.

Strong displays of emotion were an uncommon thing from Raghilda. She was not emotionless, not by any means, but she rarely ever laughed or smiled (or at least, in the case of the latter, they were rarely ever genuine). Only Hiccup—and occasionally Astrid—could get her to do such things without having to exert a considerable amount of effort into the endeavor. Hiccup wished she would laugh more; her laughter was so infectious that most people simply couldn’t help smiling when they heard it.

Uncle Björn glared at her. "Quit laughing, you stupid girl! It's not funny!"

Looking at what had caused his godsister so much delight, Hiccup had to disagree.

Clutched in his uncle’s hand was the envelope Mrs. Hofferson’s letter must have come in. It was almost completely covered in stamps, with only a square inch on the front left visible. In this space, Mrs. Hofferson had only just managed to squeeze in the Dalvors’ address.

"She  _ did  _ put on enough stamps, then," Hiccup said, trying to sound as though Mrs. Hofferson had made a common mistake.

Raghilda burst into hysterics again, even louder than before. Tears streamed down her now rather pink face.

Uncle Björn’s eyes flashed dangerously.

"The postman noticed," he said through gritted teeth. "Very curious about who would’ve done such a thing, he was. That’s why he rang the doorbell. He thought it was  _ funny _ ."

Hiccup said nothing. Other people might not understand why his uncle would make such a fuss about something as trivial as too many stamps, but Hiccup had lived with the Dalvors long enough to know just how touchy they were about anything being even a little out of the ordinary. It was their worst fear that someone would discover their (however distant) connection to people like Mrs. Hofferson.

After a while, Raghilda’s laughter subsided into giggles. She wiped the few remaining tears of mirth from her eyes.

"Can we go, then?" she asked, her scottish accent more pronounced than usual.

A slight spasm crossed Uncle Björn’s large purple face. The mustache bristled. Hiccup liked to think he knew what was going on behind the mustache; a furious battle as two of Uncle Björn’s most fundamental instincts came into conflict. Allowing Hiccup and Raghilda to go would make them happy, something he was very much against. But on the other hand, allowing the godsiblings to disappear to the Hoffersons’ for the rest of the summer would get rid of them two weeks earlier than anyone could have hoped, and Uncle Björn could hardly wait to get them out of his beloved house. To give himself thinking time, it seemed, he picked up the letter and looked at it once more.

"Who  _ is  _ this woman, anyway?" he said, staring at the signature in distaste.

"You’ve seen her before," Hiccup said. "She’s our friend Astrid’s mother, she was meeting her off the Ber—um, off the school train at the end of last term."

He had come very close to saying "Berk Express", and that was a sure-fire way to enrage his uncle. Mentions of the academy’s name were strictly forbidden in the Dalvor household.

Uncle Björn’s face screwed up, as though he was trying to remember something incredibly unpleasant and painful.

"Dumpy sort of woman?" he growled finally. "Load of children with blond hair?"

Hiccup and Raghilda both scowled. Björn Dalvor had no right to call anyone dumpy; not when his own son had at last achieved what he’d been threatening to do since he was three, and become wider than he was tall.

Before either of them could say this, however, Uncle Björn pursued the letter again. Hiccup could see his lips form the words, "send us your answer…in the normal way." He looked back up at them and spat "What in the name of Thor does she mean, ‘the normal way’?"

"Normal for us," Raghilda replied, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. "Y’know, post by Terrible Terror. That’s what’s normal for us Vikings."

From the look of outrage Uncle Björn gave her, one would have thought Raghilda had just uttered a disgusting swear word (which, thanks to her upbringing, she was prone to do). Shaking with anger, he cast a nervous look through the window, as though expecting to see the entire neighborhood standing there with their ears pressed against the glass.

"How many times do I have to tell you," the man hissed, his face now a rich plum color, "that I will not tolerate mentions of that unnaturalness in this house?"

Raghilda cocked her head to the side and tapped her cheek, as though contemplating her answer. "Hm…well, I don’t give a rat’s arse about your opinion, so…Keep saying it until you’re dead, I guess."

Uncle Björn growled, advancing toward her with a fist raised. "I will not be spoken to like that—"

But Hiccup wasn’t going to stand for this. Dead and buried were the days he had been forced to obey the Dalvors. He wasn’t wearing Balder’s old clothes, he wasn’t following the new diet, and he certainly wasn’t going to stand by and let his uncle lay a hand on his godsister. He stepped in front of her—and as he did, a plan of action became clear to him, one that would get them everything they wanted, with a show to boot.

"OK, so we can’t see the World Cup. Fine. Can we go now, then? I’ve got a letter to Alvin I want to finish. You know—My godfather."

He’d done it. He’d said the magic words.

The purple receded blotchily from Uncle Björn’s face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream.

"You’re—You’re writing to him, are you?" the man said, in a would-be calm voice. But Hiccup was not fooled—he could clearly see the pupils of his tiny eyes contracting with fear.

"Of course he is," Raghilda said casually. "It’s been quite awhile since my father’s heard from us, and if he doesn’t, he might very well start to think something’s wrong. And trust me, you do  _ not _ want my father to get worried. He's rather protective of us lot."

She flashed Uncle Björn a fake, innocent-looking smile, and together the godsiblings admired the fruit of their labor.

Hiccup could almost see the cogs working under his uncle’s thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Hiccup and Raghilda from writing to Alvin, Alvin would think they were being mistreated. If he told them they couldn’t go to the Dragon Racing World Cup, they would write and tell Alvin, who would  _ know _ they were being mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle Björn to do. Hiccup could see the conclusion forming in the man’s mind as though the great mustached face was transparent. He fought to keep his expression neutral. And then—

"Urgh!  _ Fine _ . You can go to the…the bloody…this world cup nonsense. You write and tell these—these Hofferson people that they’re to pick you up, mind. I haven’t got the time to go dropping you two off all over the godsdamn country. And you’ll spend the rest of the summer there, too. And you can tell your—your—tell  _ him _ that you’re going."

With difficulty, Hiccup resisted the urge to jump into the air and whoop with joy.

_ "We’re going…We’re going to the Hoffersons’, we’re going to the Dragon Racing World Cup!" _ he thought excitedly.

"Glad we could reach an agreement," Raghilda said brightly.

The godsiblings turned around, linked arms, and walked out of the living room.

In the hall, they nearly ran into Balder, who had been lurking behind the door, clearly hoping to hear them being told off. He looked shocked to see the broad grin on Hiccup’s face.

"Sweet Valhalla, that was a  _ marvelous  _ breakfast," Raghilda commented, leaning heavily upon Hiccup’s arm. "Wouldn’t you agree, Balder?"

Snickering at the look of astonishment on the bully’s face, they took the stairs three at a time and all but hurled themselves into Hiccup’s room.

"Good plan," Raghilda praised. "One of your best."

"Thanks."

She looked over to his bed and smiled. "Hiccup? It would appear that you have a visitor."

Confused, Hiccup glanced over his shoulder to see what she was on about.

Four Terrible Terrors were settled all around his bed. Hiccup recognized three of them; his own, Blood-Spatter and Sharpshot, and Raghilda’s, a gorgeous purple one aptly named Amethyst. The fourth one, however, was a stranger with aqua blue scales and a letter by its side. It seemed very happy to see Hiccup.

_ "Hi!" _ it shrieked, nudging the letter closer to him.  _ "I have a letter for you! My human told me it was urgent!" _

Raghilda chuckled. "That’s the Terrible Terror my father gave Astrid, isn’t it?"

It was; upon closer examination, Hiccup recognised Astrid’s messy handwriting. He quickly grabbed the letter and tore open the envelope. Inside was a hastily scribbled note:

**_Guys—DAD GOT THE TICKETS—Ireland vs Bulgaria on Monday night. And the seats aren’t that bad! Mum insisted on writing to the Muggles to ask you both to stay. That letter might already be there—I have no idea how fast Muggle post is—but I figured I’d send this with Sneaky anyway._ **

Hiccup looked at the word "Sneaky", then peered at the dragon…or at least, the area on his bed where it had been.

"Where did he…?"

Behind him, Raghilda giggled. "He's sitting on your head."

Sure enough, a shriek of  _ "Have you finished reading yet?"  _ sounded from right above Hiccup’s head.

Hiccup grinned. "Sneaky" was a perfect name. He went back to the letter:

**_We’re going to come and get you regardless of what the Muggles say; Mum and Dad just thought it would be more polite if we asked for permission. If they say yes, send Sneaky back with your answer, and we’ll come and get you guys at five o’clock on Sunday. If they say no, send Sneaky back_ ** **_immediately_ ** **_, and we’ll come and get you anyway._ **

**_Ragnar’s arriving this afternoon. Askeladden’s started work; he got a job in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Please, please, PLEASE don’t mention anything about Abroad while you’re here, or else we’ll all get the helmets bored off of us._ **

**_Can’t wait to see you again,_ **

**_—Astrid_ **

Hiccup passed the letter to Raghilda and hurried over to his desk. Grabbing a new piece of parchment, he seized his eagle-feather quill and wrote:

_ Astrid, it’s fine, we got the Muggles to say we could go. We’ll see you tomorrow, and we won’t speak to Askeladden about anything Abroad. _

_ —Hiccup _

_ P.S. Very fitting name for your Terrible Terror. He landed on my head and I didn’t notice until Raghilda pointed it out. _

"Gods, Astrid is every bit as bad with names as you are, Hiccup," Raghilda said, having finished reading the letter. "Your children are doomed."

Hiccup rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Raghilda, you're too kind."

"Booing it does not make it any less true."

Hiccup decided not to respond to that.  _ "Mind getting off of my head so I can give you the letter?"  _ He called up to Sneaky, who obliged.

The moment the letter was secure, Sneaky zoomed out of the window and out of sight.

Hiccup turned to Blood-Spatter. "Hey boy. Feel up to a long journey?"

Blood-Spatter stretched his wings.  _ "Of course I am!" _

"I need you to take this to Alvin," he said, picking up his letter. "Hang on…I just need to finish it."

He unfolded the parchment and hastily added a postscript.

_ Raghilda and I’ll be at Astrid’s house for the rest of the summer. Her dad managed to get us tickets for the Dragon Racing World Cup! _

The letter now finished, Hiccup tied it to Blood-Spatter’s leg. "We’ll be at Astrid’s when you get back, all right?"

_ "Got it. See you then." _

And he spread his wings and soared out of the window.

For a moment, Hiccup watched him fly away. Then he turned to Raghilda.

"Still hungry?" he asked with a smirk.

Raghilda grinned. "Oh, I think I can spare some room."

Laughing, Hiccup crawled under his bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard,and pulled out two large chunks of birthday cake.

They sat on his bed, eating and and practicing French (or rather, Hiccup practiced and Raghilda tried not to laugh as he butchered the language), and Hiccup savored the happiness that was flooding through him. He had cake, and Balder had nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright, beautiful summer’s day, he would be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow, his scar felt perfectly normal again, and he was going to watch the Dragon Racing World Cup with his favorite family in the world. It was hard, just now, to feel worried about anything—even Drago Bludvist.

* * *

***looks at the upcoming events***

***looks back at Hiccup***

**Oh you sweet, naive boy...**

**Highlight of chapter: "(Raghilda had been a little too quick to inform him that Hiccup was one of the smartest boys in their year, second only to her twin brother Ragnar, and there was an official _list_ of girls who wanted to be his girlfriend. Hiccup wasn't sure if she had made that up or not, but he was even less sure he wanted to hear the answer)"**

**(Psst—she didn't make that up)**

**Here's what Hiccup and Raghilda were saying:**

_**For you, my friend.** _

_**Thank you, my brother.** _

**Well, that's all for now. See you next Monday!**


	4. Back to the Burrow

***aggressively nodding my head to  Bon Jovi's "Living on a prayer"***

**Oh hi. Don't mind me, I'm just rocking out over here.**

**Carry on.**

* * *

_Chapter Four: Back to the Burrow_

* * *

By twelve o’clock the next day, Hiccup and Raghilda’s school trunks were packed and sitting in Hiccup’s room. They had emptied the hiding place under the loose floorboard of all food, double-checked every nook and cranny for forgotten spellbooks or quills, caged their remaining dragons, and taken down the chart on the wall counting down the days to September the first, on which Hiccup liked to cross off the days remaining until their return to Berk.

The atmosphere inside house four, Privet Drive was incredibly tense. The imminent arrival of an assortment of Vikings was making the Dalvors more uptight and irritable than ever. Uncle Björn had looked downright alarmed when Hiccup informed him that the Hoffersons would be arriving at five o’clock the very next day.

"I hope you’ve told them to dress properly, these people," he snarled at once. "I’ve seen the rubbish your lot wears."

"Because you know we exist," Raghilda said tiredly. "Our clothing is enchanted so that only those who know about us can see what we’re really wearing. They’ll look perfectly normal to your neighbors."

Of course, neither she nor Hiccup really cared what the neighbors would think, but they were both anxious about how rude the Dalvors might be to the Hoffersons, if the family turned up looking like their worst idea of Vikings.

Uncle Björn had put on his best suit. To some people, this might’ve seemed like a gesture of welcome, but Hiccup knew better; Uncle Björn simply wanted to look impressive and intimidating. Balder, on the other hand, looked somehow diminished. This was not because the diet was finally taking effect, but due to fright. Balder’s last encounter with a fully-grown Viking had resulted in him growing a curly pig’s tail, one that Aunt SkaÐi and Uncle Björn had had to pay heavily to get removed at a private hospital in London. It wasn’t all that surprising, therefore, that Balder kept nervously running his hands over his backside, and walking sideways from room to room, so as not to present the same target to the enemy.

Lunch was an almost silent meal. Balder didn’t even protest at the food (cottage cheese and grated celery). Aunt SkaÐi wasn’t eating anything at all. Her arms were folded, her lips pursed, and she seemed to be chewing on her tongue, as though she was biting back the furious diatribe she longed to throw at Hiccup and Raghilda.

"They’ll be driving, of course?" Uncle Björn barked across the table.

"Er," Hiccup said, exchanging an uncertain look with Raghilda.

He hadn’t really thought of that. How  _ were _ the Hoffersons going to pick them up? There wouldn’t be enough room on the family’s dragons for them all, never mind their trunks, and that would be rather hard to hide from the neighbors. They didn’t have a car anymore; the old Ford Anglia they had once owned was currently running wild in the Forbidden Forest at Berk. But Mr. Hofferson had managed to borrow a Dragon Ministry car last year, so couldn’t he be able to do it again?

"I think so," he said at last.

Uncle Björn snorted into his mustache. Under normal circumstances, he would have asked what type of car Mr. Hofferson drove; he tended to judge men by how big and expensive their cars were. But Hiccup doubted whether Uncle Björn would have taken to Mr. Hofferson even if he showed up in a solid gold Ferrari.

Hiccup and Raghilda spent most of the afternoon in Hiccup’s bedroom; they couldn’t stand watching Aunt SkaĐi peer out through the net curtains every few seconds, as though there had been a warning about an escaped rhinoceros. Finally, at a quarter to five, they went back downstairs and into the living room.

Aunt SkaÐi was compulsively straightening cushions. Uncle Björn was pretending to read the paper, but his tiny eyes were not moving, and Hiccup was sure that he was really listening with all his might for the sound of an approaching car. Balder was crammed into an armchair, his porky hands beneath him, clamped firmly around his bottom. Hiccup couldn’t take the tension; he and Raghilda left the room and sat on the stairs in the hall. Hiccup’s eyes were on his watch, and his heart was pounding with excitement and nerves.

But five o’clock came and then went. Uncle Björn, perspiring slightly in his suit, opened the front door, peered up and down the street, then withdrew his head quickly.

"They’re late!" he snarled.

"I know," Hiccup said. "Maybe—er—maybe the traffic’s bad or something…"

Ten past five…then a quarter past five…Hiccup was starting to feel anxious himself now. At half past five, he could hear Uncle Björn and Aunt SkaÐi conversing in terse whispers in the living room.

"No consideration at all."

"We might’ve had an engagement."

"I’ll bet they think they’ll get invited to dinner if they’re late."

"They most certainly won’t," Uncle Björn growled, and Hiccup could hear him stand up and start pacing the living room. "They’ll take the brats and they’ll leave, there’ll be no hanging around. And that’s  _ if _ they’re even coming. Probably mistaken the day. I daresay  _ their kind _ don’t set much store by punctuality. Either that or they drive some shotty little tin-pot car that’s broken d—AAAAAAAARRRRRGH!"

Hiccup jumped to his feet. From the other side of the living room door came the sounds of the the three Dalvors scrambling, panic-stricken, across the room. Next moment Balder came flying into the hall, looking terrified.

"What happened?" Raghilda asked, standing up. "What’s the matter?"

Balder seemed unable to speak. Hands still clamped over his backside, he waddled as fast as he could into the kitchen. Exchanging bewildered looks, Hiccup and Raghilda hurried into the living room.

Loud hangings and scrapings were coming from behind the Dalvor’s boarded-up fireplace, which had a fake coal fire plugged in front of it.

"What is it?" Aunt SkaÐi gasped. She had backed into the wall and was staring, terrified, toward the fire. "What is it, Björn?"

But they were left in doubt barely a second longer. Voices could be heard from inside the blocked fireplace.

"Ouch! Double, no—go back, go back, there’s been some kind of mistake—tell Trouble not to—OUCH! Trouble, no, there’s no room, go back quickly and tell Astrid—"

"Maybe Hiccup can hear us, Dad—maybe he’ll be able to let us out—"

There was a loud hammering of fists on the boards behind the electric fire.

"Hiccup? Hiccup can you hear us?"

The Dalvors rounded on Hiccup like a pack of angry wolverines.

"What is this?" Uncle Björn growled. "What’s going on?"

"They—They’ve tried to get here by Floo powder," Hiccup said, fighting a mad desire to laugh.

"Floo powder?!" Aunt SkaÐ repeated shrilly. "What in Thor’s name is  _ Floo powder?" _

"It’s something Vikings use so that we can travel through fire," Raghilda explained; she alone was calm and collected. "But since you’ve blocked the real fireplace…hang on, I’ll talk to them…"

She approached the fireplace and cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Mr. Hofferson? Can you hear me?"

The hammering stopped. Somebody inside the fireplace said "Shh!"

"Mr. Hofferson, it’s Raghilda…the fireplace has been blocked up. You won’t be able to get through."

"Damn!" Mr. Hofferson’s voice said. "What on Midgard did they want to block up the fireplace for?"

"They boarded it up when I was eight," Hiccup called, moving to stand beside his godsister. "They have an electric fire now."

"Really?" Mr. Hofferson’s voice said excitedly.  _ "Eclectic, _ you say? With a  _ plug? _ Mjölnir, I must see that…let’s think…Ouch! Astrid!"

Astrid’s voice now joined the others’.

"What are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?"

"Oh no, Astrid," Double’s voice said sarcastically. "This is exactly where we wanted to end up."

"Yeah, we’re having the time of our lives here," Trouble’s voice added; he sounded as though he was being squashed against the wall.

"Boys, be nice to your sister…" Mr. Hofferson said vaguely. "I’m trying to think what to do…Yes…only way, I’m afraid…Hiccup, Raghilda, you’ll want to stand back."

The godsiblings obeyed, retreating over to the sofa. Uncle Björn, however, moved forward.

"Wait a minute!" he bellowed at the fireplace. "What exactly are you going to—"

BANG.

The electric fire shot across the room as the boarded-up fireplace burst outward, expelling Mr. Hofferson, Double, Trouble, and Astrid in a cloud of rubble and loose chippings. Aunt SkaÐi shrieked and fell backward over the coffee table; Uncle Björn caught her before she hit the floor, and gaped, speechless, at the Hoffersons, all of whom had bright, golden blond hair, including Double and Trouble, who were identical to the very last detail.

Clucking her tongue, Raghilda went over to help up the twins. They grinned and hugged her, the three whispering conspiratorially amongst themselves.

This left Hiccup to help Astrid by himself. He knew it was no coincidence; when it came to his love life, Raghilda was the only one who was worse than her brother.

"You alright?" he asked Astrid, pulling her gingerly to her feet.

Astrid nodded, grinned, and proceeded to wrap her arms around him.

"Hey," she whispered into his ear.

Hiccup blushed bright red. Crush aside, Astrid’s hugs were  _ very _ different from Raghilda’s hugs, which were reserved and gentle, typically waiting for him to let go first. Astrid’s were, by comparison, grabby and over far too quickly for Hiccup’s liking, and almost always involved getting punched at some point.

("Some pain with your pleasure," Raghilda had remarked, before laughing as she dodged the pillow he’d chucked at her head)

"That’s better," Mr. Hofferson panted, apparently oblivious to this display as he dusted off of his clothes. "Ah—you must be Hiccup’s aunt and uncle!"

Tall, thin, and balding, he moved toward Uncle Björn, his hand outstretched, but Uncle Björn backed away several paces, dragging Aunt SkaÐi along with him. Words seemed to have failed Uncle Björn. His best suit was covered in white dust, which had settled in his hair and mustache and made him look as though he had just aged thirty years.

"Er—yes—sorry about that," Mr. Hofferson said, lowering his hand and peering over his shoulder at the blasted fireplace. "My fault, of course. It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be able to get out at the other end. I had your fireplace connected to the Floo Network, you see—just for the afternoon, you know, so we could get Hiccup and Raghilda. Strictly speaking, Muggle fireplaces aren’t supposed to be connected at all—but I’ve got a useful contact at the Floo Regulation Panel, and he fixed it for me. I can put it back in a jiffy, though, don’t worry. I’ll light a fire to send the others back, and then I can repair your fireplace before I Teleport."

All of this was said very fast.

Sparing a glance at the Dalvors, Hiccup was ready to bet just about anything that they hadn’t understood a single word of this. They were still gaping at Mr. Hofferson, utterly thunderstruck. Aunt SkaÐi staggered upright again and hid behind Uncle Björn.

"Hello Hiccup, Raghilda!" Mr. Hofferson said brightly. "Got your trunks ready?"

"They’re in my room," Hiccup said, as Astrid released him (Forty seconds for a hug? That had to be a record) and moved to greet Raghilda.

"We’ll get them," Double and Trouble said at once. Having rescued Hiccup from his bedroom two years ago, they knew exactly where it was. Winking at Hiccup and Raghilda, they left the room, a bit too fast to be casual. Hiccup suspected they were hoping for a glimpse of Balder; they had heard a lot about him from Hiccup and Raghilda.

"Well," Mr. Hofferson said, swinging his arms slightly, while he tried to find words to break the very nasty silence. "Very—erm—very nice place you’ve got here."

As the normally spotless living room was now covered in dust and bits of brick, this well-meaning remark didn’t go down too well with the Dalvors. Uncle Björn’s face purpled once more, and Aunt SkaĐi started chewing her tongue again. However, they seemed too scared to actually say anything.

Mr. Hofferson was looking around. He loved everything to do with Muggles. Hiccup could see him itching to go and examine the television.

"Runs off eckeltricity, doesn’t it?" he said knowledgeably. "Ah, yes, I can see the plug. I collect plugs," he added to Uncle Björn. "And batteries. Got a very large collection of batteries."

Astrid laughed, returning to Hiccup's side and wrapping one of her arms around his shoulders. "My mum says he’s mad."

Mr. Hofferson grinned at her. "Well, that’s your mum, isn’t it?"

Uncle Björn clearly thought Mr. Hofferson was mad too. He moved ever so slightly to the right, shielding Aunt SkaÐi from view, as though he thought Mr. Hofferson might suddenly run at them and attack.

"Hey Hiccup," Astrid said suddenly. "Who is that?"

Balder stood in the doorway, still clutching his bottom so tightly one would think it had fallen off. Hiccup could hear his and Raghilda’s trunks clunking down the stairs, and knew that the sound must have scared Balder out of the kitchen. Balder was staring at Astrid with a mixture of shock and fear.

"Is that your cousin, Hiccup?" Mr. Hofferson asked, taking another brave stab at making conversation.

"Yep," Hiccup said. "That’s Balder."

He and Raghilda exchanged glances and then quickly looked away from each other; the temptation to laugh was almost overwhelming.

Astrid glared daggers at the boy. "He’d better not hit on me," she hissed to Hiccup, who couldn’t help but notice that her grip on his shoulders had become tighter.

"You have magic and a functioning brain," Raghilda said. "I think it's safe to assume you’re not his type."

Balder looked at Raghilda for a moment, as though her insult had brought him back to his senses. She met his eyes and narrowed her own into slits. The big bully shuddered and looked at his feet, terrified once again. He edged along the wall in this fashion, and attempted to conceal himself behind his parents. Unfortunately for him, Uncle Björn’s bulk, while sufficient to hide bony Aunt SkaÐi, was nowhere near enough to conceal Balder.

"Having a good holiday, Balder?" Mr. Hofferson asked kindly. From the tone of his voice, Hiccup was quite sure that Mr. Hofferson thought Balder was as mad as the Dalvors thought  _ he _ was, except that Mr. Hofferson felt sympathy rather than fear.

Balder whimpered. Hiccup could see his hands tightening harder still over his massive backside.

Double and Trouble came back into the room, carrying Hiccup and Raghilda’s trunks. They glanced around as they entered, and very quickly spotted Balder. Their faces cracked into identical evil grins.

"Ah, right," Mr. Hofferson said. "Better get cracking, then."

He pulled out his axe. Hiccup saw the Dalvors draw back against the wall as one.

Astrid rolled her eyes. "Oh for the love of— _ he isn’t going to attack you, you uptight twats _ ."

"To be fair, the last time one of our kind drew a weapon on them, Balder wound up with a pig’s tail," Hiccup said.

Double and Trouble’s jaws dropped. "What?!"

"Oh yeah, I never did tell you guys about that," Astrid said, snickering at the looks of shock on her brothers’ faces.

"Uncle Gobber told me he  _ meant _ to turn him into an actual pig, but he was never good at Transfiguration," Raghilda added. She turned to Mr. Hofferson and curtsied. "As you were, Mr. Hofferson."

Mr. Hofferson pointed his axe at the hole in the wall behind him and shot a fireball at it. Flames rose at once, crackling merrily, as though they had been burning for hours. Mr. Hofferson then took a small drawstring bag from his pocket, untied it, took a pinch of the powder inside, and threw it onto the flames, which turned emerald green and roared higher than ever.

"Off you go then, Double," Mr. Hofferson said.

"Coming," Double said. "Oh no—hang on—"

A bag of sweets had spilled out of Double’s pocket, and the contents were now rolling in every direction—big, fat toffees in brightly colored wrappers.

Double scrambled around, cramming them back into his pocket, then with a cheery wave to the Dalvors, he scooped up Hiccup’s trunk and walked right into the fire, saying "The Burrow!" Aunt SkaÐi gave a little shuddering gasp. There was a whooshing sound, and Double vanished.

"Right then, Trouble," Mr. Hofferson said, "you take Raghilda’s trunk."

Trouble grunted as he lifted Raghilda’s trunk into the air. "Gods above, Raghilda, this trunk weighs more than you do! How did you manage to get it into Hiccup's room?"

"I moved it in there before I packed the heavier things," Raghilda replied. "Figured it would be easier that way. Do you need any help?"

"No, no, I'm alright…" He staggered into the flames, cried out "The Burrow!" and with a second whooshing sound he vanished too.

"Astrid, you next," Mr. Hofferson said.

Removing her arm from around Hiccup’s shoulders, Astrid shot one last glare at the Dalvors. "For your sake, I hope that everything Hiccup has told me about you was exaggerated."

With that, she stepped into the fire, yelled "The Burrow!" as loud as she could, and disappeared.

Rather than let Mr. Hofferson question him about Astrid's statement, Hiccup called out, "Raghilda, you go next."

As she passed him, Raghilda muttered, "She doesn't know about half of the things they've done to you, does she?"

Hiccup didn't have time to respond before she too was gone. Now he and Mr. Hofferson alone remained.

"Well…bye," Hiccup said to the Dalvors.

They said nothing in response. Unfazed by this, Hiccup moved quickly towards the fire, but just as he reached the edge of the hearth, Mr. Hofferson put out a hand and held him back. He was staring at the Dalvors in utter confusion.

"Hiccup said goodbye to you," he said. "Didn't you hear him?"

"It doesn't matter," Hiccup mumbled to Mr. Hofferson. "Honestly, Mr. Hofferson, I don’t care."

Mr. Hofferson did not remove his hand from Hiccup's shoulder.

"You aren't going to see your nephew until next summer," he said to Uncle Björn in mild indignation. "Surely you're going to say goodbye to him?"

Uncle Björn's face worked furiously. Being taught consideration by a man who had, intentionally or not, just blasted away half of his living room wall seemed to be causing him intense suffering. But Mr. Hofferson was still holding his axe, and Uncle Björn’s tiny eyes darted to it once, before he said, in a very resentful tone of voice, "Goodbye, then."

"Bye," Hiccup said, putting one foot forward into the green flames, which felt pleasantly like warm breath. At that moment, however, there was a horrible gagging sound, and Aunt SkaĐi let out an equally dreadful scream.

Startled by the noise, Hiccup wheeled back around. Balder had moved from his hiding spot; he was now kneeling beside the coffee table, gagging and spluttering on a foot-long, slimy, purple  _ thing  _ that was protruding from his mouth. Bewildered, it took Hiccup a moment to realize that the thing was in fact Balder’s tongue—and another moment to notice the brightly colored toffee wrapper that was clutched tightly in his cousin’s fist.

Aunt SkaĐi hurled herself onto the ground beside Balder, seized the end of his swollen tongue with both hands, and tried to rip it out of his mouth; unsurprisingly, Balder yelled and spluttered worse than ever, trying to fight her off. Uncle Björn was bellowing and waving his arms around, and Mr. Hofferson had to shout to make himself heard.

"Don’t worry, I can sort him out!" he exclaimed, advancing towards Balder with his axe raised, but Aunt SkaĐi screamed even louder and threw herself on top of her son, shielding him from Mr. Hofferson.

"No, really!" Mr. Hofferson said earnestly. "It's a simple process—it was the toffee—Double and Trouble—real practical jokers—but it's only a bit of water magic—please, I can correct it—"

But far from being reassured, the Dalvors became more panic-stricken; Aunt SkaĐi was sobbing hysterically, tugging even harder at Balder’s tongue, as though determined to tear it out; Balder appeared to be suffocating under the combined pressure of his mother and his tongue; and Uncle Björn, who had completely lost control by this point, grabbed a china figure from on top of the sideboard and threw it at Mr. Hofferson, who ducked, causing the ornament to shatter in the blasted fireplace.

"Now really!" Mr. Hofferson said angrily, brandishing his axe. "I'm only trying to  _ help _ !"

Bellowing like a wounded Thunderdrum, Uncle Björn snatched up another ornament.

"Hiccup, go! Just go!" Mr. Hofferson shouted, his axe pointed at Uncle Björn. "I’ll sort this out!"

Hiccup didn't want to miss the fun, but Uncle Björn’s second ornament very narrowly missed his left ear, and on balance he thought it best to leave the situation to Mr. Hofferson. He stepped into the fire, looking over his shoulder as he shouted "the Burrow!" His last fleeting glimpse of the living room was of Mr. Hofferson blasting a third ornament out of Uncle Björn’s hand, Aunt SkaĐi screeching and lying on top of Balder, and Balder’s tongue lolling around like a great slimy python. But next moment Hiccup had begun to spin very fast, and the Dalvors’ living room was whipped out of sight in a rush of emerald-green flames.

* * *

**Buh-Bye Dalvors! We won't miss you!**

**^.^**

**Highlight of chapter: "("Some pain with your pleasure," Raghilda had remarked, before laughing as she dodged the pillow he’d chucked at her head)"**

**(Remember how I put "references to sex" in the tags for this book? Yeah Raghilda is like 99.9% of the reason why I put that tag there)**

**Do you have any suggestions for what I should do in future chapters/books? If so, don't be afraid to tell me—it is more than likely that I will love your idea and implement it. Credit is always given.**

**Well folks, that's all for now. See you next week!**


	5. Hoffersons' Horrendous Viking Novelties

**Happy early Valentines' Day, you guys!I hope it's a magical day for you all!**

**Onto the chapter!**

* * *

_Chapter Five: Hoffersons' Horrendous Viking Novelties_

* * *

Hiccup spun faster and faster, elbows tucked tightly to his sides, blurred fireplaces flashing past him, until he started to feel sick and closed his eyes. Then, when at last he felt himself slowing down, he threw out his hands and came to a halt just in time to prevent himself from falling face forward out of the Hoffersons’ kitchen fire.

"Did he eat it?" Double asked excitedly, as Trouble and Raghilda helped Hiccup back to his feet.

"Yeah," Hiccup said, trying to steady himself. "What _was_ that thing?"

"Ton-Tongue Toffee," Trouble said brightly. "Double and I invented them; we’ve been looking for someone to test them on all summer…"

The tiny kitchen exploded with laughter; Hiccup looked around and saw that Astrid was sitting at the scrubbed wooden table with two golden-haired men Hiccup had never seen before, though he knew immediately who they must be: Hakon and Einar, the two eldest Hofferson brothers.

"How’re you doing, Hiccup?" the nearer of the two said, grinning at him and holding out a large hand, which Hiccup shook, feeling calluses and blisters under his fingers. This had to be Einar, who worked with dragons in their natural habitats. Einar was short and stocky, rather like the twins, though all three were still quite a few inches taller than Hiccup. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it.

"Ah, so _this_ is the Hiccup I’ve heard so much about," Hakon said, slinging an arm around Astrid’s shoulders. Of all her siblings, Hakon looked the most like Astrid; tall with a slight build, blue eyed and long haired. "I thought he’d be shorter."

Astrid shoved his arm off her shoulders. "Shut up."

Hiccup laughed—it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that—but before he could say anything, there was a faint whooshing sound, and Mr. Hofferson appeared out of thin air at Trouble’s shoulder. He was looking angrier than Hiccup had ever seen him.

"That wasn't funny, Double!" he shouted. "What in Thor’s name did you give that Muggle boy?"

"I didn’t give him anything," Double said, with another evil grin. "I just dropped it…it’s his fault he went and ate it, I never told him to."

"You dropped it on purpose!" Mr. Hofferson bellowed. "You knew he’d eat it, you _knew_ he was on a diet—"

"How big did his tongue get?" Trouble asked eagerly.

"It was four feet long before his parents would let me shrink it!"

Even Raghilda started laughing.

"It isn’t funny!" Mr. Hofferson shouted. "That sort of behavior seriously undermines Viking-Muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of Muggles, and then my own sons—"

"We didn’t give it to him because he’s a Muggle!" Double said indignantly.

"No, we gave it to him because he’s a bullying git," Trouble added. "Isn’t he, Hiccup?"

"He is, Mr. Hofferson," Hiccup said earnestly.

"That’s not the point!" Mr. Hofferson shook his head. "You wait until I tell your mother about this—"

"Tell me about what?"

Everyone spun around.

Mrs. Hofferson had just entered the kitchen. She was a short, plump woman with a very kind face, though her eyes were currently narrowed in suspicion.

"Oh, hello Hiccup, Raghilda," she said, spotting them both and smiling. Then her eyes snapped back to her husband. "Tell me about _what_ , Bjartr?"

Mr. Hofferson hesitated. However angry he was with Double and Trouble, he clearly hadn’t intended on telling Mrs. Hofferson what had happened at Privet Drive.

"Well?"

There was a silence, while Mr. Hofferson eyed his wife nervously. Then two boys appeared in the kitchen doorway behind Mrs. Hofferson. One, with messy blackish-brown hair, light green eyes and a kind smile, was Ragnar Wicket, Hiccup’s best friend and Raghilda’s twin brother. The other, a tall and lanky blond, was Astrid’s younger brother Egill. Both of them waved at Hiccup, who waved back, causing Egill to drop his gaze—Egill viewed Hiccup as his personal hero.

" _Well?_ " Mrs. Hofferson repeated, in the dangerous sort of voice that any boy who had ever hit on Astrid knew all too well.

"It's nothing, Ingrid," Mr. Hofferson mumbled, "Double and Trouble just…but I’ve already had words with them—"

"What have they done this time?" Mrs. Hofferson said. "If it's got anything to do with Hoffersons' Horrendous Viking Novelties—"

"Should we go upstairs, then?" Raghilda said to Astrid, loud enough to be heard by everyone.

Astrid stood up, clearly grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, I’ll show you around; you and Hiccup’ll be in my room."

"We’ll come too," the twins said together.

"You stay right where you are!" Mrs. Hofferson snarled.

Hiccup and the girls edged out of the kitchen, and they, Ragnar and Egill set off along the narrow hallway and up the rickety staircase that zigzagged through the house to the upper stories.

"What are Hoffersons’ Horrendous Viking Novelties?" Hiccup asked as they climbed.

"Mum found a stack of order forms when she was cleaning Double and Trouble’s room," Astrid said quietly. "Great long price lists for stuff that they've invented. Joke stuff, you know, like fake weapons and trick sweets. It was _brilliant_. I never knew they'd been inventing all that stuff…"

"We’ve been hearing explosions out of their room for ages, but we never thought they were actually _making_ things," Egill added. "We thought they just liked the noise."

"Thing is, most of the stuff—well, OK, all of it—was a bit dangerous," Astrid said, "and they were planning on selling it at Berk to make some money. Mum lost her mind. She burned all the order forms and told them they weren't allowed to make anymore of it."

"She was furious with them anyway," Egill said. "They didn't get as many VALs as she expected them to."

VAL stood for Viking Average Levels, the examination Berk students took at the end of their fifth year.

"And then they had a huge row," Astrid said, "because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry like Dad, and they told her that all they want to do is open a joke shop."

She and Raghilda shared a disdainful look. After the incident with Groundsplitter, Alvin’s Whispering Death who had nearly been executed last year, neither of the girls were particularly fond of the Dragon Ministry.

Just then a door on the second landing opened, and a face poked out, looking very annoyed.

"Hello Askeladden," Hiccup said.

"Oh, hello Hiccup," Askeladden said, peering in his direction. "I was just wondering who was making all that ruckus. I'm trying to work in here, you know. I've got a very important report to finish for the office, and I can't concentrate when people keep thundering up and down the stairs."

"So sorry that our _walking_ has disturbed the top-secret workings of the Dragon Ministry," Astrid said irritably.

"What are you working on?" Ragnar asked.

Askeladden puffed up with pride. "It's a report for the Department of International Magical Cooperation," he said smugly. "We’re trying to standardize cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign imports are just a shade too thin—the rate of leakages has risen to a record _three percent_ a year—"

"Oh, that'll change the bloody world," Astrid deadpanned. "I can see it now—front page of the Daily Prophet bearing the title "Cauldrons are too thin"."

Raghilda laughed. Only Askeladden resisted the urge to smile.

"I know it sounds boring, Astrid," he said, "but unless some sort of international law is established, we might very well find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow-bottomed products that seriously endanger—"

"Alright alright, I get it," Astrid said, and she started off upstairs again. Askeladden rolled his eyes and slammed his door shut. As Hiccup, Ragnar, Raghilda and Egill followed Astrid up three more flights of stairs, shouts from the kitchen below echoed up to them. It sounded as though Mr. Hofferson had told Mrs. Hofferson about the toffees.

The room at the top of the house where Astrid slept looked a lot like it did the last time Hiccup had come to stay: the same posters of Astrid’s favorite Dragon Racing team, the Holyhead Harpies, were whirling and waving on the walls and sloping ceiling, her academy spellbooks were still piled in the corner, and her axe was in its place on the wall, right beside the tiny window that gave Astrid a wonderful view of her family’s backyard and the fields beyond. Sneaky was curled up on her bed, sound asleep.

"Wake up, Sneaky, we’ve got guests," Astrid said, edging her way between two of the three beds that had been squeezed into the room. "They were going to have you stay with Egill," she told Hiccup, "but there wasn't enough room. Ragnar and the twins are in there, because Hakon and Einar are staying in Double and Trouble’s room. And Askeladden gets to keep his room to himself, because he has to _work._ "

Egill made a face. "Never mind the fact that all of the beds in my room are squished together, and everyone winds up on the floor."

Astrid prodded Sneaky with her finger. "Come on now, get up!"

The Terrible Terror continued sleeping.

"Lazy bones," Astrid huffed. "He’s never awake when I want him to be. He kept me up half the night, and now look at him."

"I keep telling you, he needs to stay with Everwild and Harmed," Egill said. "They could straighten him out."

"And I keep telling _you_ that he doesn't want to be down there," Astrid replied. She scooped the dragon into her arms and carried him over to the windowsill. "He likes it in here too much."

Egill rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. _Sure_ he does."

Hiccup chuckled. He knew Astrid too well to take her grumblings seriously. She had complained endlessly about her old pet rat, Scabbard, but had been utterly devastated when Ragnar’s Terrible Terror, Amber, appeared to have eaten him.

"Where's Amber?" Hiccup asked Ragnar now.

"Last I saw, she was in the garden," Ragnar said. "She likes chasing the gnomes; I reckon they’re a lot more fun to chase than the rats back home."

"So Askeladden’s enjoying work?" Hiccup said, sitting down on one of the beds and watching the Holyhead Harpies zooming in and out of the posters on the ceiling.

Astrid snorted. "Enjoying it? He probably wouldn't _leave_ if Dad didn't force him to. He’s obsessed. Whatever you do, _don't_ get him onto the subject of his boss." She made her voice sound pompous and dignified. "According to Kronos the Tenacious…As I was saying to Kronos the Tenacious…Kronos the Tenacious is of the opinion…Kronos the Tenacious told me that…and on and on and on it goes. Pretty sure they'll be announcing their engagement before the end of the year."

"I hope you guys had a good summer," Ragnar said, turning to Hiccup and Raghilda, who had seated herself on the other bed. "Did you get our food parcels and everything?"

"Yeah, thanks," Hiccup said. "Saved our lives, that food."

"And have you heard from—" Astrid began, but at a pointed look from Ragnar she fell silent. Astrid had been so deeply involved in helping Alvin escape from the Dragon Ministry that she was almost as concerned about him as Hiccup, Ragnar and Raghilda were. However, discussing him in front of Egill was a bad idea. Alvin’s innocence, and how he had managed to escape, was not public knowledge.

"Heard from who?" Egill asked.

"…From Gobber," Astrid improvised. She turned to Ragnar and feigned confusion. "What did you think I was going to say?"

Egill frowned, clearly unconvinced. Possibly Raghilda noticed this, because she chose that moment to say "I think they've stopped arguing."

"Good," Astrid said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Shall we go down and inspect the damage?"

Everyone nodded, and they all went back downstairs to find Mrs. Hofferson alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered.

"We’ll be eating out in the garden," she said when they came in. "There's just not enough room for twelve people in here. Egill, Ragnar, could you please take the plates outside? Hakon and Einar are setting up the tables. Knives and forks, please, you two," she said to Astrid and Hiccup, pointing her axe a little more vigorously than she had intended to at a pile of potatoes in the sink. The potatoes shot out of their skins so fast that they ricocheted off the walls and ceiling.

"Oh for Thor’s sake," she snapped, now directing her axe at a dustpan, which flew off the sideboard and started skating across the floor, scooping up the potatoes. "Those two!" she burst out savagely, now pulling pots and pans out of a cupboard, and Hiccup knew she meant Double and Trouble. "I don't know what's going to happen to them, I really don't. No ambition whatsoever, unless you count making as much trouble as they possibly can…"

Mrs. Hofferson slammed a large copper pot down on the kitchen table and began to wave her axe over it. A stream of water poured from axehead and splashed into the pot.

"It's not as though they haven't got brains," she continued irritably, taking the pot over to the stove and lighting it with another wave of her axe, "but they're wasting them, and unless they pull themselves together soon, they'll be in real trouble. I've had more letters from Berk about them than the rest put together. If they carry on the way they're going, they'll end up in front of the Improper Use of Magic Office."

Mrs. Hofferson jabbed her axe at the cutlery drawer, which shot open. Hiccup and the girls jumped out of the way as several knives soared out of it, flew across the kitchen, and began chopping the potatoes, which had just been tipped back into the sink by the dustpan.

"I don't know where we went wrong with them," Mrs. Hofferson said, putting down her axe and starting to pull out still more pots. "It's been the same for years, one thing after another, and they won't listen to—OH NOT AGAIN!"

She had picked up her axe from the table, and it had emitted a loud squeak and turned into a giant rubber mouse.

"One of their fake weapons again!" she shouted. "How many times have I told them not to leave them lying around!?"

She grabbed her real axe and turned around to find that the pot on the stove was boiling.

"Come on," Astrid muttered, grabbing a handful of cutlery out of the open drawer, "let's go and help Hakon and Einar."

They left Mrs. Hofferson to her ranting and headed out the back door into the yard.

They had only gone a few paces when Ragnar’s bright orange Terrible Terror, Amber, came pelting out of the garden, chasing what looked like a muddy potato on legs. Hiccup recognized it instantly as a gnome. Barely ten inches high, its horny little feet pattered very fast as it sprinted across the yard and dived headlong into one of the Wellington boots that lay scattered around the door. Hiccup could hear the gnome giggling madly as Amber inserted a paw into the boot, trying to reach it. Meanwhile, a very loud crashing noise was coming from the other side of the house. The source of the commotion was revealed as they entered the garden, and saw that Hakon and Einar both had their weapons out, and were making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to knock the other’s out of the air. Double and Trouble were cheering, Egill was laughing, and Ragnar was hovering near the hedge, apparently torn between amusement and annoyance.

Hakon’s table caught Einar’s with a huge bang and knocked one of its legs off. There was a clatter from overhead, and they all looked up to see Askeladden’s head poking out of a window on the second floor.

"Will you keep it down?!" he bellowed.

"Sorry, Ask," Hakon said, clearly trying not to laugh. "How’re the cauldron bottoms coming on?"

"Very badly," Askeladden retorted, and he slammed the window shut. Chuckling, Hakon and Einar directed the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, with a wave of his axe, Hakon reattached the table leg and conjured tablecloths from nowhere.

By seven o’clock, the two tables were groaning under dishes and dishes of Mrs. Hofferson’s excellent cooking, and the nine Hoffersons, Hiccup, Ragnar, and Raghilda were settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky. To somebody who had been living on meals of increasingly stale cake all summer, this was paradise, and at first, Hiccup and Raghilda listened rather than talked as they helped themselves to chicken and ham pie, boiled potatoes, and salad.

At the far end of the table, Askeladden was telling his father all about his report on cauldron bottoms.

"I’ve told Kronos the Tenacious that I’ll have it ready by Tuesday," Askeladden was saying (With a smirk, Hiccup noted that Astrid's impression of him saying "Kronos the Tenacious" had been spot on). "That’s a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he’ll be grateful I’ve done it in good time, I mean, it’s extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We’re just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Tori the Crafty—"

"I like Tori," Mr. Hofferson said mildly. "He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favor: His younger brother, Hagen, got into a spot of trouble—a lawnmower with unnatural powers—I smoothed the whole thing over."

"Oh Tori’s likable enough, of course," Askeladden said, waving his hand dismissively, "but I’ll never understand how he ever got to be Head of Department…I mean, compare him to Kronos the Tenacious! I can’t see Kronos the Tenacious losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what’s happened to them. You realize Bjorg the Absent-minded has been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?"

"Yes, I was just talking to Tori about that," Mr. Hofferson said, frowning. "He says Bjorg’s gotten lost plenty of times before now—though I must say, if it was someone in my department, I’d be worried…"

"Oh Bjorg’s hopeless, alright," Askeladden said. "I hear she’s been shunted from department to department for years, much more trouble than she’s worth…but all the same, Tori ought to be trying to find her. Kronos the Tenacious has been taking a personal interest, she worked in our department at one time, you know, and I think he was quite fond of her—but Tori just keeps laughing and saying she probably misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of Albania. However" — Askeladden heaved an impressive sigh and took a deep swig of elderflower wine — "we’ve got quite enough on our plates at the Department of International Magical Cooperation without trying to find members of other departments too. As you know, we’ve got another big event to organize right after the World Cup."

He cleared his throat significantly and looked down toward the end of the table where Hiccup, Astrid, Ragnar, and Raghilda were sitting. "You know the one I’m talking about, Father." He raised his voice slightly. "The top-secret one."

Astrid rolled his eyes and muttered to Hiccup, "He’s been trying to get us to ask what that event is ever since he started work. Probably an exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons."

In the middle of the table, Mrs. Hofferson was arguing with Hakon about his hair.

"It's getting rather ridiculous, dear," she said, fingering her axe lovingly. "I mean, it's longer than your sister’s! I just wish you’d let me give it a trim…"

On Hakon’s other side, Egill laughed. "Honestly Mum, you're so old-fashioned. Hakon looks fine. Besides, it's nowhere near as long Headmaster Alvis’s…"

Next to Mrs. Hofferson, Double, Trouble, and Einar were all talking spiritedly about the World Cup.

"It’s got to be Ireland," Einar said thickly, through a mouthful of potato. "They absolutely flattened Peru in the semifinals."

"Bulgaria’s got Thuggory, though," Double pointed out.

"Thuggory’s good, but he's _one_ decent player. Ireland has got seven," Einar said shortly. "I wish England had got through. That was embarrassing, that was."

"What happened?" Hiccup asked eagerly, regretting more than ever his isolation from the Viking world when he was stuck on Privet Drive.

"Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten," Einar said gloomily. " _Ten_. It was their worst defeat in decades. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg."

Hiccup had been on the Gryffindor House Dragon Racing team ever since his first year at Berk, and owned one of the best racing saddles in the world, a Firebolt. Flying came more naturally to Hiccup than anything else in the Viking world, and he played in the position of Seeker on the Gryffindor House team.

Mr. Hofferson conjured up candles to light the darkening garden before they had their homemade strawberry ice cream, and by the time they had finished, moths were fluttering low over the table, and the warm air was perfumed with the smells of grass and honeysuckle. Hiccup was feeling extremely well fed and at peace with the world as he watched several gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing madly and closely pursued by Amber.

Astrid looked carefully up the table to check that the rest of the family were all busy talking, then she said very quietly to Hiccup, "So— _have_ you heard from Alvin lately?"

Ragnar and Raghilda looked around, listening closely.

"Yeah," Hiccup said softly, "twice. He sounds okay. I just wrote to him yesterday. He might write back while I’m here."

He suddenly remembered the reason he had written to Alvin, and for a moment was on the verge of telling them about his scar hurting again, and about the dream that had awoken him…but he really didn’t want to worry them just now, not when he himself was feeling so happy and peaceful.

"Sweet baby Thor, look at the time," Mrs. Hofferson said suddenly, checking her wristwatch. "You really should be in bed, the whole lot of you—you’ll be up at the crack of dawn to get to the Cup. Hiccup, Raghilda, if you leave your school lists out, I’ll get your things for you tomorrow in Diagon Alley. I’m getting everyone else’s. There might not be time after the World Cup; the match went on for five days last time."

"Wow—hope it does this time!" Hiccup said enthusiastically. Astrid nodded eagerly.

"Well, _I_ certainly don’t," Askeladden said sanctimoniously. "I shudder to think what the state of my in-tray would be if I was away from work for five days."

"Yeah, someone might slip dragon dung in it again, eh, Ask?" Double said.

"That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!" Askeladden said, going very red in the face. "It was nothing personal!"

"It was," Trouble whispered to Hiccup as they got up from the table. "We sent it."  


* * *

***giggles***

**Highlight of chapter: Astrid and Sneaky. Don't let her grumbling fool you, she loves that dragon.**

**I'm tired. Night guys!**


	6. The Portkey

**Today's chapter was all written today. Seriously. I literally forgot that I hadn't started this chapter until I woke up this afternoon (it's winter break, don't judge me). My first coherent thought was**

**"Well...shit."**

**This is why it's great to have my best friend as my editor; I'm pretty sure anybody else would have given up on me by this point.**

* * *

_Chapter Six: The Portkey_

* * *

Hiccup felt as though he had barely lain down to sleep when someone began to shake him awake.

"Huh…wha…?"

" _ Se réveiller, Monsieur Haddock. _ "

Hiccup groaned, burying his head into his pillow. " _ Allez-vous en _ ."

Raghilda sighed. "I knew I would regret teaching you that."

"Is he up?" Astrid's voice asked.

"No, he's being stubborn."

Astrid laughed, and Hiccup couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. He turned over in bed, hoping neither girl had noticed.

"Do you want me to try?"

"That depends," Raghilda said, shaking Hiccup a bit harder than before, "does your plan involve pushing him onto the floor?"

"Why would I do that?"

There was a pause.

"Yeah, yeah, don't give me that look."

Hiccup heard the sound of footsteps, and suddenly he was not-so-gently turned over.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Astrid said, grinning down at him.

Hiccup grunted, trying to twist out of her grip. "Pretty sure Sleeping beauty got woken up with a kiss, not violent shaking."

Half a second too late, he realized just who he'd said that in front of.

Raghilda let out a low whistle. " _ Well then _ . I’ll just see myself out."

She picked up her shawl and headed downstairs, smirking all the while.

Astrid released him and stood up, her face lightly dusted with pink. "I’ll uh…I’ll let you get dressed."

She rushed out the door before Hiccup could respond.

As he dressed, Hiccup berated himself for being so stupid. He had lived with Raghilda long enough to know that she liked making people flustered, and he happened to be one of her favorite targets. He knew for a fact she wasn't going to let this go anytime soon, and as he headed downstairs he resigned himself to the teasing that was certain to follow.

Mrs. Hofferson was stirring the contents of a large pot on the stove, while Mr. Hofferson was checking a sheaf of large parchment tickets. Raghilda sat next to him, clearly trying hard not to move as Astrid pulled her hair into it's normal braids.

"Honestly Astrid, I can do them myself," Raghilda said.

Astrid scoffed. "Well I can do them better, so shush."

Hiccup went to the table and sat next to Raghilda, careful to avoid Astrid's eye. Raghilda grinned at him, but thankfully refrained from saying anything.

_ "Probably knows that Astrid will "accidentally" pull on her hair if she does," _ he thought, very nearly laughing at the thought.

Double and Trouble came shuffling down after Hiccup, stretching and yawning.

"Morning boys," Raghilda said, as Astrid finished with her hair and went to sit beside Hiccup. "Where are Ragnar and Egill?"

"Egill’s getting dressed," Double said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "And Ragnar’s still asleep."

Hiccup rolled his eyes. Ragnar had been his best friend since they were first years, and he was fairly certain Ragnar was not aware an hour this early existed.

"What about Hakon, Einar, and Ask-Ask-Askeladden?" Trouble asked, trying and failing to stifle a huge yawn. "Why aren't they up yet?"

"Well, they're Teleporting, aren't they?" Mrs. Hofferson said, heaving the large pot over to the table and starting to ladle porridge into bowls. "So they can have a bit of a lie-in."

"So they're still in bed," Double grumbled, pulling his bowl of porridge toward him. "Why can't  _ we _ Teleport too?"

"Because you're not of age and you haven't passed your test," Mrs. Hofferson retorted.

Egill appeared in the kitchen. "Mum? Can you help? Ragnar still won't wake up."

Mrs. Hofferson sighed. "Just a minute, Egill."

"Trying pouring some ice water over him," Hiccup told her quietly. "That usually does the trick."

She smiled at him. "Thank you, dear. Eat up, now. You'll need your strength."

Hiccup watched her leave, before turning back to Mr. Hofferson.

"I didn't know you needed to pass a test in order to Teleport," he said.

"Oh yes," Mr. Hofferson said, tucking the tickets safely into a pocket on his trousers. "The Department of Magical Transportation had to fine a young couple the other day for Teleporting without a license. It's not easy, Teleportation, and when it isn't done properly it can lead to some nasty complications. This pair I'm talking about went and splinched themselves."

Double and Trouble winced, and Astrid let out a soft hiss of sympathy.

"Er— _ Splinched _ ?" Hiccup asked, having no idea what that meant.

"They left half of themselves behind," Mr Hofferson explained, now spooning large amounts of treacle into his porridge. "They got stuck, of course. Couldn't move either way. Had to wait for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad to sort them out. Meant a fair old bit of paperwork, I can tell you, what with the Muggles who spotted the body parts they’d left behind…"

Hiccup had a sudden vision of a pair of legs and an eyeball lying abandoned on the pavement of Privet Drive.

"Were they okay?" he asked, startled.

"Oh yes," Mr. Hofferson said matter-of-factly. "But they got a rather heavy fine, and I don’t think they’ll be trying it again in a hurry. You don’t mess around with Teleporting. There are plenty of adult Vikings who don’t bother with it. Prefer dragon-riding—traditional and safe, if only a bit slower."

"But Hakon and Einar and Askeladden can all do it?"

"Einar had to take the test twice," Double said, grinning. "He failed the first time, Teleported almost five miles south of where he meant to, right on top of some poor old dear doing her shopping, remember?"

"Yes, well, he passed the second time," Mrs. Hofferson said, marching back into the kitchen amid hearty sniggers.

"Askeladden only passed two weeks ago," Egill said. "He’s been Teleporting downstairs every morning since, for no other reason than to prove that he can."

There were footsteps down the passageway and Ragnar came into the kitchen, pale and irritable. His hair was dripping wet.

"Why do we have to be up so early?" He grumbled, rubbing his eyes and sitting down at the table.

"We’ve got a bit of a walk," Mr. Hofferson said, as his wife handed Ragnar a large cup of coffee.

"Walk?" Hiccup asked. "What, are we walking to the World Cup?"

"No, no, that’s miles away," Mr. Hofferson said, shaking his head and smiling. "We only need to walk a short way. It’s just that it’s very difficult for a large number of Vikings to congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We have to be very careful about how we travel at the best of times, and on a huge occasion like the Dragon Racing World Cup—"

"Trouble!" Mrs. Hofferson said sharply, and they all jumped.

"What?" Trouble said, in an innocent tone that deceived nobody.

"What is that in your pocket?"

"Nothing!"

"Don’t you lie to me!"

Mrs. Hofferson pointed her axe at George’s pocket and summoned a gust of wind.

Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of Trouble’s pocket; he made a grab for them but missed, and they sped right into Mrs. Hofferson’s outstretched hand.

"We told you to destroy them!" Mrs Hofferson cried furiously, holding up what were unmistakably more Ton-Tongue Toffees. "We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!"

It was an unpleasant scene; the twins had evidently been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the house as possible, and Mrs. Hofferson’s gusts of wind pulled them from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining of Trouble’s cape and the turn-ups of Double’s trousers.

"We spent six months developing those!" Double shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away.

"Oh a fine way to spend six months!" she shrieked. "No wonder you didn’t get more V.A.L.s!"

All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as they took their departure. Mrs. Hofferson was still glowering as she kissed Mr. Hofferson on the cheek, though not nearly as much as the twins, who had each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and walked out without a word to her.

"Well, have a lovely time," Mrs. Hofferson said, "and  _ behave yourselves _ ," she called after the twins’ retreating backs, but they did not look back or answer. "I’ll send the others along around midday," she said to Mr. Hofferson, as he, Hiccup, Astrid, Ragnar, Raghilda, and Egill set off across the dark yard after Double and Trouble.

It was chilly, and the moon was still out. Only a dull, greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed that daybreak was drawing closer. Hiccup, having been thinking about thousands of Vikings speeding toward the Dragon Racing World Cup, sped up to walk with Mr. Hofferson.

"So how does everyone get there without all the Muggles noticing?" he asked.

"It’s been a massive organizational problem," Mr. Hofferson said, sighing heavily. "The trouble is, about a hundred thousand Vikings turn up at the World Cup, and of course, we just haven’t got a magical site big enough to accommodate them all. There are places Muggles can’t penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred thousand Vikings and their dragons into Diagon Alley or platform nine and three-quarters. So we had to find a nice deserted moor, and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as possible. The whole Ministry’s been working on it for months. First, of course, we have to stagger the arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to arrive at least two weeks beforehand. A limited number use Muggle transport, but we can’t have too many clogging up their buses and trains—remember, Vikings are coming from all over the world. Some Teleport, of course, but we have to set up safe points for them to appear, well away from Muggles. I believe there’s a handy wood they’re using as the Teleportation point. Flying in might seem easy, but that also means you need a place to keep your dragon, and most can't afford that, especially not when they would need to bring more than one in order to get everyone there. So most people use Portkeys."

"Portkeys?"

"They’re objects used to transport Vikings from one spot to another at a prearranged time. You can do large groups at a time if you need to, which is the main advantage they have over dragons. There have been two hundred Portkeys placed at strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that’s where we’re headed."

Mr. Hofferson pointed ahead of them, where a large black mass rose beyond the village of Ottery St. Catchpole.

"What sort of objects are Portkeys?" Hiccup asked curiously.

"Well, they can be anything," Mr. Hofferson said. "Unobtrusive things, obviously, so Muggles don’t go picking them up and playing with them…stuff they’ll just think is litter…"

They trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as they made their way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. Hiccup's hands and feet were freezing. Mr. Hofferson kept checking his watch.

They didn’t have breath to spare for talking as they began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tufts of grass. Each breath Hiccup took was sharp in his chest and his legs were starting to seize up when, at last, his feet found level ground.

"Whew," Mr. Hofferson panted, wiping the sweat off of his forehead. "Well, we’ve made good time—we’ve got ten minutes…"

Egill came over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in his side.

"Now we just need the Portkey," Mr. Hofferson said, squinting around at the ground. "It won’t be big…Come on…"

They spread out, searching. They had only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when someone called out

"Bjartr! Over here, Bjartr! We’ve got it!"

Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.

"Asmund!" Mr. Hofferson cried, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed.

Mr. Hofferson was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced Viking with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand.

"This is Asmund the Adamant, everyone," Mr. Hofferson said. "He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Erik?"

Erik Digson was an extremely handsome boy (or at least, Hiccup had heard people call him that) of around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Dragon Racing team at Hogwarts.

"Hi," Erik said, looking around at them all and waving.

Everybody said hi back except Double and Trouble, who merely nodded. They had never quite forgiven Erik for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first Dragon Racing match of the previous year.

"Long walk, Bjartr?" Erik’s father asked.

"Not too bad, actually," Mr. Hofferson said. "We live just on the other side of the village there. You?"

"Had to get up at two, didn’t we, Erik? I tell you, I’ll be glad when he’s got his Teleportation test. Still…not complaining…World Cup, wouldn’t miss it for a sackful of Galleons—and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy…" Asmund peered good-naturedly around at the three Hofferson boys, Hiccup, Astrid, Ragnar and Raghilda. "All these yours, Bjartr?"

"Oh no, only the blonds," Mr. Hofferson said, pointing out his children. "This is Ragnar, friend of Astrid— and Raghilda, another friend—And of course Hiccup—"

"Thor’s hammer," Asmund interrupted, his eyes widening. "Hiccup? Hiccup Haddock?"

"Er—yeah," Hiccup said.

Hiccup was used to people looking curiously at him when they met him, used to the way their eyes moved at once to the lightning scar on his forehead, but it always made him feel uncomfortable.

"Erik’s talked about you, of course," Asmund said. "Told us all about playing against you last year…I said to him, I said—Erik, that’ll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will…You beat Hiccup Haddock!"

Hiccup couldn’t think of any reply to this, so he remained silent.

Double and Trouble were both scowling again, as was Astrid. Erik looked slightly embarrassed.

"Hiccup fell out of his saddle, Dad," he muttered. "I told you…it was an accident…"

"Yes, but you didn’t fall off, did you?" Asmund roared genially, slapping his son on his back. "Always modest, our Erik, always the gentleman…but the best man won, I’m sure Hiccup would say the same, wouldn’t you, eh? One falls out of his saddle, one stays on, you don’t need to be a genius to tell which one’s the better flier!"

Astrid's eyes got a vindictive gleam to them. " _ I’d _ say it was the one who got his team the cup, but we’ll agree to disagree on that one."

Asmund coughed; now it was him who was embarrassed.

"Astrid," Hiccup said. "That's not nice."

"It is true, though," Raghilda said. "You only lost the one match, and considering that  _ dementors _ were the reason you fell, that doesn't hold much water."

"You're not helping."

"Must be nearly time," Mr. Hofferson said, pulling out his watch again. "Do you know whether we’re waiting for any more, Asmund?"

"No, the Valdahas have been there for a week already, and the Hardrocksons couldn’t get tickets," Asmund said, clearly glad for the distraction. "There aren’t any more of us in this area, are there?"

"Not that I know of," Mr. Hofferson said. "Yes, it’s a minute off…We’d better get ready…"

He looked around at Hiccup and Ragnar.

"You just need to touch the Portkey, that’s all, a finger will do—"

With difficulty, owing largely to their bulky backpacks, the ten of them crowded around the old boot held out by Asmund.

They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chilly breeze swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke. It suddenly occurred to Harry how odd this would look if a Muggle were to walk up here now…ten people, two of them grown men, clutching this manky old boot in the semi-darkness, waiting…

"Three…" Mr. Hofferson muttered, one eye still on his watch, "two…one…"

It happened immediately: Hiccup felt as though a hook just behind his navel had been suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. His feet left the ground; he could feel Astrid and Raghilda on either side of him, their shoulders banging painfully into his; they were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling him magnetically onward and then —

His feet slammed into the ground; Astrid staggered into him and they both fell over; the Portkey hit the ground near their heads with a heavy thud.

Hiccup looked up. Mr. Hofferson, Asmund, and Erik were still standing, though looking very windswept, and Raghilda was on all fours; everybody else was sprawled out on the ground.

"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill," a voice said.

* * *

**Ta-da!!!**

**Highlight of chapter: Do I really need to tell you? Here's a hint: It's at the beginning of the chapter.**

**Here's what Hiccup and Raghilda were saying*:**

**_Wake up, Mister Haddock._   
**

**_Go away._ **

***** **Standard disclaimer: I don't speak French. Like, at all. So if I get anything wrong, please tell me so that I can fix it.**

**Well folks, I need to leave now (heading to New York City in the morning), so I won't be able to respond to any comments until tomorrow. Bye!**


	7. Tori and Kronos

**With the recent ending of Race To The Edge, and HTTYD 3 fast approaching, I'd like to take this opportunity to remind you guys that I pick and chose what parts of the established canon I will use, and what parts I will gleefully ignore. Mostly this has to do with Johann's character arc (and the whole thing with HTTYD 3 being about...well, you know), but don't be surprised if there's anything else that I don't choose to keep.**

**(Also I don't quite understand what the fandom finds so funny about the whole scrap metal thing, but it's annoying and I hate it. Sorry, but much like dabbing and the cup song, the obsession with it has made me develop an irrational hatred towards the thing itself)**

**((That being said, the Hiccstrid-kissing-in-inappropriate-places meme is hilarious))**

**Onwards!**

* * *

_****Chapter Seven: Tori and Kronos_

* * *

Hiccup disentangled himself from Astrid and got to his feet, holding out his hand to help her up as well. They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking Valkyries, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill.

"Ah, good morning Basil," Mr. Hofferson said. He picked up the boot and handed it to the taller of the two women, who Hiccup assumed was Basil. She took it from him and, without even looking, tossed it into a large box labelled "USED PORTKEYS".

"Hello there Bjartr," Basil said wearily, reaching up to rub at her eyes. "You're not on duty, are you?"

"Afraid not, Basil," Mr. Hofferson said. "Just here to see the match."

"Lucky you," Basil yawned. "Brenna and I have been here all night…You'd best move along now, we've got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at Five-fifteen."

"Just give me a second, and I'll find your campsite," Brenna said, a tired, polite smile on her face. She looked through the list carefully, squinting so that she could read better. "Let's see…Haildottir…Hideside…Ah! Here we are! Hofferson—About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. A Mister Fiske is the site manager, he should be able to help you…And Digson, you're in the second field, ask for Mister Garth…"

"Thank you very much, Brenna," Mr. Hofferson said, and he beckoned for everyone to follow him.

They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, Hiccup could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon. They said goodbye to the Digsons and approached the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. He wore a nice suit, rather like one Uncle Björn might wear, meaning that this man was almost certainly a Muggle. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.

"Morning!" Mr. Hofferson said brightly.

"Morning," the Muggle said.

"Would you by any chance be Mister Fiske?"

"Aye, I would," Fiske said, nodding curtly. "And you are…?"

"Hofferson—two tents, booked a couple of days ago?"

"Aye," Fiske said, consulting a list tacked to the door. "You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?"

"That's it, yes," Mr. Hofferson said.

"You'll be paying now, then?" Fiske asked.

"Ah—right—certainly—" Mr. Hofferson muttered. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Hiccup toward him.

"Help me, Hiccup," he said quietly, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. "This one's a—a—a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now…So this is a five?"

"A twenty," Hiccup corrected him in an undertone, uncomfortably aware of Fiske trying to catch every word.

"Ah, yes, so it is…I don’t know, these little bits of paper…"

"You foreign?" Fiske asked as Mr. Hofferson returned with the correct notes.

"Foreign?" Mr. Hofferson repeated, puzzled.

"You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money," Fiske said, scrutinizing Mr. Hofferson closely. "I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago."

"Did you really?" Mr. Hofferson said nervously.

Fiske nodded, rummaging around in a tin for some change.

"Never been this crowded," he said suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. "Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up…"

"Is that right?" Mr. Hofferson said. He held his hand out for his change, but Fiske didn't seem to have noticed/

"Aye," he said thoughtfully. "People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners—Weirdos, you know? There's an old bloke walking around in a ladies’ nightgown. And they all seem to  _ know  _ each other. It’s like some sort of…I dunno…like some sort of  _ rally _ ."

At that moment, a large Viking appeared out of thin air next to Fiske, looking incredibly irritable.

Fiske jumped, understandably startled. "Huh—wah—?"

"Sorry, mate," the Viking grunted, holding up his mace.

A bolt of lightning hit Fiske square in the face. Instantly, his eyes slid out of focus; his brows unknitted, and a look of dreamy unconcern fell over his face. Hiccup recognized the symptoms of one who had just had his memory modified.

"A map of the campsite for you," Fiske said placidly to Mr. Hofferson. "And your change."

"Thanks very much," Mr. Hofferson said, clearly relieved.

The Viking accompanied them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Fiske, he muttered to Mr. Hofferson, "Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Tori’s not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security. Gods, I’ll be glad when this is over. See you later, Bjartr."

He Teleported.

"I thought Tori was Head of Magical Games and Sports," Egill said, looking surprised. "He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn’t he?"

"He should," Mr. Hofferson said, smiling lightly as he led them through the gates into the campsite, "but Tori’s always been a bit…well… _ lax _ about security. You couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic head of the sports department though. He played for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had."

They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Hiccup could hardly be surprised that poor Fiske was getting suspicious.

Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

"Always the same," Mr. Hofferson said, shaking his head fondly. "We can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us."

They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read  _ Hofferson _ .

"Couldn't have a better spot!" Mr. Hofferson said happily. "The field is just on the other side of the wood there; we’re as close as we could possibly be."

He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. "Right," he said excitedly, "no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we’re out in these numbers on Muggle land. We’ll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be too difficult…Muggles do it all the time…Here, Hiccup, where do you reckon we should start?"

Hiccup had never been camping in his life; the Dalvors had never taken him on any kind of holiday, preferring to leave him with Mrs. Figg, an old neighbor. However, he and Ragnar worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr. Hofferson was more of a hindrance than a help, they finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.

All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to Vikings, Hiccup thought, but the trouble was that once Hakon, Einar, and Askeladden arrived, they would be a party of eleven. Ragnar seemed to have spotted this problem too; he shot Hiccup a quizzical look as Mr. Hofferson dropped to his hands and knees and entered the first tent.

"We’ll be a bit cramped," he called, "but I think we’ll all squeeze in. Come and have a look."

Hiccup bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt his jaw drop. He had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs. Figg’s house: There were crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs, and a strong smell of cats in the air.

"Well, it’s not for long," Mr. Hofferson said, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. "I borrowed this from Throttlebottom at the office. Doesn’t camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago."

He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. "We’ll need water…"

"There’s a tap marked on this map Fiske gave us," Astrid said as she crawled inside the tent, completely unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. "It’s on the other side of the field."

"Well, why don’t you, Hiccup, Ragnar, and Raghilda go and get us some water then"—Mr. Weasley handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans—"and the rest of us will get some wood for a fire?"

"But we’ve got an oven," Egill pointed out. "Why can’t we just—"

"Egill, anti-Muggle security!" Mr. Hofferson exclaimed, though the shine of anticipation on his face gave away his real motivation. "When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I’ve seen them at it!"

After a quick tour of the second tent, which was significantly smaller than the first, though without the smell of cats,  Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.

Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring around eagerly, but being careful not to make too much noise as their fellow campers began to wake up.

First to stir were the families with small children; a tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding an axe far too big for him in both hands, and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.

"Magnus, sweetie, where are—Magnus! Put your sister’s axe down this instant, you naughty boy, you know you're not supposed to—SWEET THOR!"

She had accidentally trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy’s yells—"You bust slug! You bust slug!"

A short way farther on, they saw two little girls, barely older than Magnus, who were using their parents’ dragons as jungle-gyms. Neither dragon appeared to appreciate this behavior, but they did nothing to express this fact to the little girls.

Here and there adult Vikings and Valkyries were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, used their weapons to conjure some fire; those who had dragons had them breathe fire, with mixed results; most, however, were striking matches, with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn’t work. Three African Vikings sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a large rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American Valkyries sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: The Salem Institute of Valkyries. Hiccup caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn’t understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited.

"Er—is it my eyes, or has everything gone… _ green _ ?" Astrid asked, stopping suddenly.

It wasn’t just her eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.

"Hiccup! Astrid! Ragnar!"

It was Wartihog Brandir, their fellow Gryffindor fourth year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friends, Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston, also of Gryffindor.

"Like the decorations?" Wartihog asked, grinning. "The Ministry’s not too happy."

"Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colors?" Wartihog’s mother asked. "You should see what the  _ Bulgarians  _ have got dangling all over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland, of course?" she added, eyeing Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls beadily. When they had assured her that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again, though, as Astrid said, "Like we'd be stupid enough to say anything else surrounded by that lot."

"I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?" Raghilda mused.

"Let’s go and have a look," Ragnar said, pointing to a large patch of tents upheld, where the Bulgarian flag —white, green, and red—was fluttering in the breeze.

The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very brutish-looking face. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.

"Thuggory," Astrid said quietly.

"Who?" Ragnar asked.

"Thuggory," Astrid repeated. "Thuggory Thorstein. He's the Bulgarian Seeker."

"Sweet Valhalla, I've never seen someone look that grumpy before," Raghilda observed, sticking her tongue out at the many Thuggorys blinking and scowling at them. "Did they not tell him they were going to take the picture?"

Astrid shrugged. "Who cares? He’s unbelievable. He’s really young too. Only just eighteen or something. He’s a genius, you wait until tonight, you’ll see."

There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated argument. One of them was a very old Viking who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry Viking; he was holding out a pair of ordinary Viking clothes and almost crying with exasperation.

"Just put them on, Sven, there’s nothing wrong with them. You can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s already getting suspicious—"

"I like this outfit," the old Viking said stubbornly. "And I don't know what's got the Muggle so worked up; I mean, I bought this in a Muggle store, he ought to be used to clothes like this."

"It's a  _ ladies _ ’ nightgown, Sven," the Ministry Viking said. He tried to force the Viking clothes into Sven’s hand, but the old man was indignant.

"I’m not putting them on," he said. "They'll be too tight. I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks."

Raghilda was overcome with such a strong fit of giggles at this point that she had to duck out of the queue and only returned when Sven had collected his water and moved away.

Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, they made their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar faces: other Berk students with their families. Eret Eretson, the old captain of Hiccup's House Dragon Racing team, who had just left Berk and was now called Eret the Trapper, dragged Hiccup over to his parents’ tent to introduce him, and told him excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team. Next they were hailed by Speedfist Boilson, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on they saw Heather Valdaha, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Ragnar, who slopped quite a lot of water down his front in his haste to wave back.

Raghilda raised an eyebrow. "Who’s that, Ragnar?" she asked, her tone innocent, even as her eyes sparked with mischief.

Ragnar blushed, avoiding his sister’s gaze. "Just a friend of mine."

Raghilda’s eyebrow rose even higher. "Really? Because your face and your averted gaze are telling a  _ vastly _ different story."

Ragnar blushed even harder. He opened his mouth to fire out a rebuttal, but quickly closed it, as though realizing that whatever he had been about to say would only give his sister more ammunition.

Feeling sympathy for his friend (sympathy that would only last for as long as Raghilda was in the immediate vicinity), Hiccup pointed out a large group of teenagers whom he had never seen before.

"Who d’you reckon they are?" he asked the group at large, though it was mostly directed at Astrid. "They don’t go to Berk, do they?"

"I doubt it. They probably go to some foreign school," Astrid said. "I know there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Hakon had a penfriend at a school in Brazil when he was our age…they had this exchange trip, and he  _ really  _ wanted to go, but Mum and Dad just couldn’t afford it. His penfriend got all offended when he said he wasn’t going and sent him a cursed hat. It made his ears shrivel up for a month. Don't think they ever spoke again after that…"

Hiccup laughed but didn’t voice the amazement he felt at hearing about other Viking schools. He supposed, now that he saw representatives of so many nationalities in the campsite, that he had been stupid never to realize that Berk couldn’t be the only one. He glanced at Ragnar, who looked utterly unsurprised by the information. No doubt he had run across the news about other Viking schools in some book or other.

"You’ve been ages," Trouble said when they finally got back to the Hoffersons’ tents. "Did you get lost or something?"

"Met a few people on the way," Astrid said, setting the water down. "Have you not got that fire started yet?"

"Nah. Dad’s having fun with the matches," Double explained, rolling his eyes.

Mr. Hofferson was having no success at all in lighting the fire, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Splintered matches littered the ground around him, but he looked as though he was having the time of his life.

"Oops!" he said as he managed to light a match and promptly dropped it in surprise.

"Come here, Mr. Hofferson," Ragnar said kindly, taking the box from him, and showing him how to do it properly.

At last they got the fire lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Hofferson cordially as they passed. Mr. Hofferson kept up a running commentary, mainly for Hiccup and Ragnar’s benefit; his own children knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested, and Raghilda held no interest whatsoever.

"That was Ase the Articulate, Head of the Dwarf Liaison Office…Here comes Alvilda the Creative; she’s with the Committee on Experimental Charms; she’s had those horns for a while now, but the mustache is a more recent edition…Hello, Bard…Bard the Blunt, he’s an Obliviator—member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know…and that’s Embla the Elegant and Frode the Shrewd…they’re Unspeakables…"

"They’re  _ what _ ?"

"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to…"

At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Hakon, Einar, and Askeladden came strolling out of the woods toward them.

"Just Teleported, father," Askeladden said loudly. "Ah, excellent, lunch!"

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Hofferson jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them.

"Aha!" he said. "The man of the moment! Tori!"

Tori the Crafty was easily the most noticeable person Hiccup had seen so far, even including old Sven in his flowered nightdress. He was wearing long robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played for England. His nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, Hiccup thought), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion, which shone through his thick yellow-and-black face paint, made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.

"Ahoy there!" Tori called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet, and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.

"Bjartr, old man," he puffed as he reached the campfire, "what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming…and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements…Not much for me to do, if I'm being honest!"

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry Vikings rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.

Askeladden hurried forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Tori ran his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.

"Ah—yes," Mr. Hofferson said, grinning, "this is my son, Askeladden. He’s just started at the Ministry—and this is Double—no, no, that's Trouble, sorry— _ that’s _ Double—Hakon, Einar, Egill—my daughter Astrid, I believe you met her a few years back, when she was about ten—and these are her friends, Ragnar Wicket, Raghilda Harkstow, and Hiccup Haddock."

Tori did the smallest of double takes when he heard Hiccup's name, and his eyes performed the familiar flick upward to the scar on Hiccup's forehead.

"Everyone," Mr. Hofferson continued, "this is Tori the Crafty, you know who he is, it’s thanks to him we’ve got such good tickets—"

Tori beamed and waved his hand, as if to say it had been nothing.

"Fancy a flutter on the match, Bjartr?" he asked eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. "I’ve already got Halvar the Confident betting me Bulgaria will score first—I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in years—and little Agatha the Sweet has put up half shares in her eel farm on a week-long match."

"Oh… go on then," Mr. Hofferson said, clearly uncomfortable. "Let’s see…a Galleon on Ireland to win?"

"A Galleon?" Tori looked slightly disappointed, but recovered himself. "Very well, very well…are there any other takers?"

"They’re all a bit young to be gambling," Mr. Hofferson said, even though three of his children were grown adults. "Ingrid wouldn’t like—"

"We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, and three Knuts," Double said as he and Trouble quickly pooled all their money, "that Ireland wins the match—but Thuggory gets the Snitch. Oh, and we’ll throw in a fake axe."

"You don’t want to go showing Tori the Crafty rubbish like that—" Askeladden hissed, but Tori didn’t seem to think the axe was rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Double, and when the axe gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Tori roared with laughter.

"Excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing in years! I would gladly pay five Galleons for  _ that _ !"

Askeladden froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

"Boys," Mr. Hofferson said under his breath, "I don’t want you betting…That’s all your savings…Your mother—"

"Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Bjartr!" Tori boomed, rattling his pockets excitedly. "They’re old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Thuggory’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance…I’ll give you excellent odds on that one…We’ll add five Galleons for the funny axe, then, shall we…"

Mr. Hofferson looked on helplessly as Tori whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins’ names.

"Cheers," Trouble said, taking the slip of parchment Tori handed him and tucking it away carefully. Tori turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Hofferson.

"Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an eye out for Kronos the Tenacious. My Bulgarian opposite number’s making difficulties, and I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Kronos’ll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages."

"Kronos the Tenacious?" Askeladden said, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. "He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll—"

"Oh please," Double cut in dismissively. "Anyone can speak Troll. All you have to do is point and grunt."

Askeladden threw Double an extremely nasty look and stoked the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil.

"Any news of Bjorg the Absent-minded yet, Tori?" Mr. Hofferson asked, as Tori settled himself down on the grass beside them all.

"Not a word," Tori said comfortably. "But she’ll turn up. Poor old Bjorg…memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She’ll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July."

"You don’t think it might be time to send someone to look for her?" Mr. Hofferson suggested tentatively as Askeladden handed Tori his coffee.

"Kronos keeps saying that," Tori said, his round eyes widening innocently, "but we really can’t spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil! Kronos!"

A Viking had just Teleported at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Tori, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Kronos the Tenacious was a stiff, upright, elderly man with short, neatly trimmed grey hair and a matching beard. His eyes were sharp and cold, and his mouth seemed drawn in a permanent scowl.

"Pull up a bit of grass, Kronos," Tori said brightly, patting the ground beside him.

"No thank you, Tori," Kronos said, and there was a bite of impatience in his voice. "I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box."

"Oh, is  _ that  _ what they're after?" Tori said. "I thought the man was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent."

"Kronos sir!" Askeladden said breathlessly, sunk into a kind of half-bow that made him look like a hunchback. "Would you like a cup of coffee, sir?"

"Oh," Kronos said, looking over at Askeladden in mild surprise. "Yes—thank you, lad."

Askeladden busied himself with the kettle, very eager to impress Kronos.

"Been keeping busy, have you Kronos?" Tori asked.

"Fairly," Kronos replied, so deadpan that Hiccup had to fight the urge to laugh. "Organizing portkeys across five continents is no small feat, Tori."

"I imagine you'll both be glad when this is over?" Mr. Hofferson said, as Askeladden handed Kronos his coffee.

Kronos nodded, but Tori looked utterly shocked.

"Glad! Don’t know if I’ve ever had more fun…Still, it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look forward to, eh, Kronos? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?"

Kronos raised his eyebrows at Tori, his ever-present scowl deepening. "We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details—"

"Oh details!" Tori said, waving the word away like a cloud of midges. "They’ve signed, haven’t they? They’ve agreed, haven’t they? What details are left? I bet you anything these kids will know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s happening at Berk after all—"

"Tori, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know," Kronos said sharply, cutting Tori’s remarks short. "Thank you for the coffee, lad."

He pushed his undrunk coffee back at Askeladden and waited for Tori to rise; Tori struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his coffee, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.

"See you all later!" he said. "You’ll be up in the Top Box with me—I’m commentating!"

He waved, Kronos nodded curtly, and both of them Teleported away.

"What’s happening at Berk, Dad?" Trouble said at once. "What were they talking about?"

"You’ll find out soon enough," Mr. Hofferson said, smiling mysteriously.

"Come on dad, tell us!" Double pleaded.

"It’s classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it," Askeladden said stiffly. "Kronos the Tenacious was quite right not to disclose it."

"Oh shut up, Ask," Trouble said.

A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain over the thousands of waiting Vikings, the last vestiges of pretence disappeared: the Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.

Salesmen were appearing every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes of various sizes—green ones for Ireland, red ones for Bulgaria—which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of the players’ dragons that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

"Been saving my pocket money all summer for this," Astrid told Hiccup, as they, Ragnar, and Raghilda strolled through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Though Astrid only purchased a small green rosette, she also looked through the collectible figures, eventually picking up the one of Thuggory Thorstein, the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Thuggory walked backward and forward over her hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him.

"Either buy it or put it down," the man selling the collectibles barked. Astrid scowled, but obeyed, placing the small figure back where she had found it.

"Wow, look at these!" Hiccup said, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except that they were covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials.

"Omnioculars," the salesviking said eagerly. "You can replay action…slow everything down…and they flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. Bargain—ten Galleons each."

"I haven't got ten," Astrid said quietly, so that only Hiccup could hear her. She gave the omniculars a longing look, and was about to turn away when Hiccup grabbed a hold of her wrist.

"Four pairs," he said firmly to the salesviking, who seemed delighted by his choice.

Astrid's face turned red. "Oh, Hiccup, that's  _ forty _ galleons, that's way too much…really, I don't need one…"

"Do you want one?" Hiccup asked.

"Well, yes, but—"

"Then you can have them." He pushed a pair of omniculars into her hands. "There, see? They're yours now. Simple."

"But—"

"Just say thank you, lass, it'll be over quicker," the salesviking said, watching the interaction with a smirk on his face.

Astrid ducked her head, clearly embarrassed. "T-Thank you, Hiccup. Really."

"You're welcome, Milady," Hiccup said, handing Ragnar and Raghilda pairs as well.

Their money bags considerably lighter, they went back to the tents. Hakon, Einar, and Egill were all sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Hofferson was carrying an Irish flag. Double and Trouble had no souvenirs, as they had given Tori all their gold.

And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.

"It’s time!" Mr. Hofferson said, looking as excited as any of them. "Come on, let’s go!"

* * *

**Hurray!**

**Highlight of chapter: ...Can I cheat and say all of it? No? Well then it's a four-way tie between: the little children (kids are cute, OK? Magical children are even cuter), Raghilda sticking her tongue out at the Thuggory posters (ya'll don't know why I love that part so much...well Gamer Spice might, I think I told them why), Ragnar's reaction to Heather (let the shipping _begin_ ) and of course the Hiccstrid at the end (just let him spoil you Astrid, you deserve to be spoiled)**

**Bye!**


	8. The Dragon Racing World Cup

**Brace yourselves folks; I haven't written a Dragon Racing match in months, so I'm a bit rusty.**

~~**Also I changed the Veela mascots into a creature I happen to find a lot more cool.** ~~

**I should note that the HTTYD books never really tell us what Thuggory looks like (or at least, it's not on the wiki; it literally just calls him a "hulking brute of a boy"), so I sort of made up his appearance as I went.**

**Carry on.**

* * *

_Chapter Eight: The Dragon Racing World Cup_

* * *

Clutching their purchases, Mr. Hofferson in the lead, they all hurried into the wood, following the torch-lit trail towards the arena. They could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious; even Raghilda couldn't stop grinning. They walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic arena. Though Hiccup could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the water, he could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.

"Seats a hundred thousand," Mr. Hofferson said, spotting the awestruck look on Hiccup's face. "Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again…bless them," he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting Vikings and Valkyries.

"Prime seats!" the Ministry Valkyrie at the entrance  exclaimed when she checked their tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Bjartr, and as high as you can go."

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr. Hofferson’s party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the arena and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Hiccup, filing into the front seats with the Hofferson, looked down upon a scene the likes of which he could never have imagined.

A hundred thousand Vikings and Valkyries were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval of pitch black water. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the arena itself. The water looked smooth as glass from their lofty position, and the pontoons seemed to have been made from steel. At either end of the pond stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at Hiccup's eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it, as though an invisible giant’s hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching it, Hiccup saw that it was flashing advertisements across the field.

_ The Bluescale: A Saddle for All the Family—safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer…Sparkshower the Clean’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain!…Gladrags the Gifted’s Suit and Dress shop—London, Paris, Hogsmeade… _

With difficulty, Hiccup tore his eyes away from the sign and looked over his shoulder to see who else was sharing the box with them. So far it was empty, except for a tiny creature sitting in the second-to-last seat at the end of the row behind them. The creature, whose legs were so short they stuck out in front of it on the chair, was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and it had its face hidden in its hands. Yet those long, batlike ears were oddly familiar…

He nudged Astrid's side and pointed at the creature. "Look."

Astrid twisted around in her seat to see what he was pointing at, and her eyes widened in surprise.

" _ Dobby? _ " she said incredulously.

The tiny creature looked up and stretched its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large tomato. It wasn't Dobby—it was, however, unmistakably a house-elf, as Hiccup's friend Dobby had been. Hiccup had set Dobby free from his old owners, the Jorgenson clan, who had been cruel and abusive towards the poor creature.

"Did miss just call me Dobby?" the house-elf squeaked curiously, peering at Astrid from between its fingers. Its voice was higher even than Dobby’s had been, a teeny, quivering squeak of a voice, and Hiccup suspected—though it was very hard to tell with a house-elf—that this one might just be female. Ragnar and Raghilda spun around in their seats to look. Though they had heard a lot about Dobby from Hiccup, they had never actually met him. Even Mr. Hofferson looked around in interest.

"Sorry," Hiccup told the house-elf, "we just thought you were someone we knew."

"But I knows Dobby too, sir!" the house-elf squeaked. She was shielding her face, as though blinded by light, though the Top Box was not brightly lit. "My name is Winky, sir—and you, sir—" Her dark brown eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as they rested upon Hiccup's scar. "You is surely Hiccup Haddock!"

"Yeah, I am," Hiccup said.

"But Dobby talks of you and madam Astrid all the time, sir!" she said, lowering her hands very slightly and looking awestruck.

"How is he?" Astrid asked, sounding a little surprised that Dobby had talked about her. "How’s freedom suiting him?"

"Ah, miss," Winky said, shaking her head, "ah miss, meaning no disrespect, miss, but I is not sure Hiccup Haddock did Dobby a favor by setting him free."

"Why?" Hiccup asked, taken aback. "What’s wrong with him?"

"Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir," Winky said sadly. "Ideas above his station, sir. Can’t get another position, sir."

"Why not?" Hiccup and Astrid asked together.

Winky lowered her voice by a half-octave and whispered, "He is wanting paying for his work, sir and miss."

"Paying?" Hiccup said blankly. "Well—why shouldn't he be paid?"

Winky looked quite horrified at the idea. She closed her fingers slightly, so that her face was half-hidden again.

"House-elves is not paid, sir!" she said in a muffled squeak. "No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what is unbecoming to a house-elf. You goes racketing around like this, Dobby, I says, and next thing I hear you’s up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common dwarf."

"Well, it's about time he had a bit of fun," Astrid said, frowning slightly.

"House-elves is not supposed to have fun, miss," Winky said firmly, though her voice was muffled slightly by her hands. "House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, miss"—she glanced towards the edge of the box and gulped—"b-but my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, miss."

"Why’s he sent you up here, if he knows you don’t like heights?" Hiccup asked. It seemed like a horribly cruel thing to do.

"Master—master wants me to save him a seat, sir. He is very busy," Winky said, tilting her head toward the empty space beside her. "Winky is wishing she is back in master’s tent, sir, if Winky is being honest, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf."

She gave the edge of the box another frightened look and hid her eyes completely again. Hiccup and Astrid turned back to the others.

"So that’s a house-elf?" Egill said, peering at Winky. "Weird things, aren't they?"

"Dobby was weirder," Astrid said. She took out her Omnioculars and started testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium.

"Wow!" she breathed, twiddling the replay knob on the side. "This thing is incredible!"

Hiccup grinned. "Glad you like it, Milady."

Raghilda chuckled, picking up her own Omniculars and looking in the same direction Astrid was. Ragnar, meanwhile, was skimming through his velvet-covered, tasseled program.

"‘A display from the team mascots will precede the match,’" he read aloud.

"Oh that's always worth watching," Mr. Hofferson said. "National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show."

The box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Mr. Hofferson kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important Vikings. Askeladden jumped to his feet so often that he looked like he was trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Fudge the Mighty, the Chief of the Dragon Ministry himself, arrived, Askeladden bowed so low that his head actually hit the floor. Everyone laughed except Mr. Hofferson, who looked embarrassed on his son’s behalf, and the girls, who at the sight of Fudge became rigid in their seats.

Highly embarrassed, Askeladden sat down, throwing a jealous look at Hiccup, whom Fudge had greeted like an old friend. They had met before, and Fudge shook Hiccup's hand in a fatherly fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to the Vikings on either side of him.

"Hiccup Haddock, you know," he told the Bulgarian Chief, who was wearing a splendid suit of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn't seem to understand a word of English. "Hiccup Haddock…oh come on now, you know who he is…the boy who survived the Dragon Lord…you do know who he is—"

The Bulgarian Viking suddenly spotted Hiccup's scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it.

"Knew we’d get there in the end," Fudge told Hiccup, sounding weary. "I’m no great shakes at languages; I need Kronos the Tenacious for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saving him a seat…good call; these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places…ah, and here's Spitelout!"

Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls turned quickly. Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Hofferson were none other than Dobby the house-elf’s former owners: Spitelout the Stern; his son, Snotlout; and a woman Hiccup supposed must be Snotlout's mother.

Hiccup and Snotlout Jorgenson had been enemies ever since their very first journey to Berk. A pale boy with cold blue eyes and a proud, sneering face, Snotlout greatly resembled his father. His mother had black hair as well; tall and slim, she would have been nice-looking if she hadn’t been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose.

"Ah, Fudge," Spitelout said, holding out his hand as he reached Fudge. "How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Freya the Divine? Or our son, Snotlout?"

"How do you do, how do you do?" Fudge said, smiling and bowing to Freya. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk—Obalonsk—Mr.—well, he’s the Bulgarian Chief, and he can't understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind. And let’s see who else—you know Bjartr, I daresay?"

It was a tense moment. Mr. Hofferson and Spitelout looked at each other, and Hiccup vividly recalled the last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in Flourish and Blotts’ bookshop, and they had had a fight. Spitelout’s cold blue eyes, exactly like those of his son, swept over Mr. Hofferson, and then up and down the row.

"Sweet Thor, Hofferson," he said softly. "What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?"

Astrid scowled, and probably would have stood up to tell Spitelout off if Raghilda hadn't intervened; she leaned over and placed a hand on the blonde’s shoulder, indicating Fudge with a slight jerk of her head.

_ Not while the Chief is here _ .

Fudge, who apparently didn't notice this, said, "Spitelout has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Bjartr. He and his family are here as my guests."

"How—how nice," Mr. Hofferson said, a very strained smile on his face.

Spitelout’s eyes had fallen upon Raghilda. They widened slightly, as though he recognized her, even though the two had never met before. He nudged his wife, who’s eyes also widened when they saw who he was looking at.

Raghilda narrowed her eyes at them, and when she spoke there was an inherit coldness to her tone. "Hello Spitelout. Freya."

Fudge looked from his guests to Raghilda. "Oh dear, do you know each other? I had no idea—"

"We've never met," Spitelout said stiffly, glaring at Raghilda.

"No, we haven't," Raghilda agreed. She aimed a smile at Freya, one that was all teeth and no mirth. "Visited Asta lately?"

Freya paled. She looped her arm through her husband’s and tugged him down the line towards their seats.

"Thought not," Raghilda said.

"Who’s Asta?" Astrid asked, looking confused.

Fudge cut in before Raghilda could respond. "Nothing that needs to be discussed at the moment, right?" He didn't wait for anyone to answer, instead turning to Snotlout. "Why don't you join your parents, lad—the game’ll be starting soon."

Snotlout nodded, though he glared at Raghilda, who returned the gesture without hesitation. The glare was also shot at Hiccup and Ragnar, but it morphed into a disgusting grin when Snotlout saw Astrid.

One of the only things that Hiccup and Snotlout had in common was that both boys had a crush on Astrid, and had from the day they met her. Unlike Hiccup, however, Snotlout was convinced that Astrid returned his feelings, and was merely playing hard to get. How he had reached this conclusion, no one knew, because Snotlout was the exact sort of person Astrid couldn't stand—an arrogant show-off.

"Come sit with us, darling," Snotlout purred, holding his hand out for her.

Astrid grunted, making a point of picking up her Omniculars and looking through them. "I'm good here, thanks."

Snotlout sighed. "Suit yourself. I'll check back later if you change your mind…"

When Astrid didn't respond, he shot Hiccup another glare, as though Hiccup had  _ forced _ Astrid to decline his invitation, and strutted away.

"Git," Astrid muttered.

At that moment, Tori the Crafty charged into the box.

"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. "Chief—ready to go?"

"Ready when you are, Tori," Fudge said comfortably.

Tori whipped out his axe, directed it at his own throat, and a gust of wind circled around it. When he spoke next, his voice carried over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed arena, booming into every corner of the stands.

"Ladies and gentlemen…welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Dragon Racing World Cup!"

The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message ( _ Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans — A Risk With Every Mouthful! _ ) and now showed  **BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0** .

"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce…the Bulgarian National Team Mascot!"

The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.

"I wonder what they've brought," Mr. Hofferson mused, leaning forward in his seat.

Astrid, who had been looking through her Omnioculars, pulled away with surprise. "It's…a lion?"

Hiccup grabbed his own Omniculars and looked down. Sure enough, a ginormous lion was emerging from the water, shaking the droplets out of its golden fur.

"Not a lion," Raghilda said. "Look again."

Now that the lion was entirely out of the water, Hiccup could see that Raghilda was right. The supposed lion only had the  _ head _ of a lion; its body more resembled that of a goat, and its tail strongly resembled that of a Deadly Nadder.

"No way!" Astrid's face shone with excitement. "How in the name of Thor did they manage to get their hands on a  _ Chimera _ ?!"

The beast roared then, and a burst of flames shot out of its mouth. The crowd  _ ooh _ ed and  _ aah _ ed and cheered as it pounce from pontoon to pontoon.

"Chimeras are often found in Bulgaria," Ragnar said, watching with clear interest. "What  _ I _ want to know is how they managed to get it here—they’re supposed to be really dangerous."

"They are," Raghilda said. "That one's just a cub."

Ragnar looked back at her. "How do you know?"

"Didn't you notice? It doesn't have a mane."

"It could be a female," Astrid said.

Raghilda shook her head. "No way. No one's stupid enough to mess with a _female_ chimera. And in any case, that one is too small to be any older than a couple years at best. Fully-grown chimeras are _three_ _times_ that size."

The chimera roared one last time, before diving back into the water, causing a gigantic splash. Hiccup shuddered to think that it could get any bigger than it already was.

"And now," Tori the Crafty’s voice boomed, "Kindly put your weapons in the air for…the Irish National Team’s mascot!"

Tori had barely finished speaking when a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the arena. It circled around once, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling towards the goal posts. A rainbow arched suddenly over the arena, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd cheered loudly, even though Hiccup felt that the chimera had been far more impressive.

Now the rainbow faded, and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began soaring over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it—

"Excellent!" Astrid yelled as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Hiccup saw that it was actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men in red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of green or gold.

"Leprechauns!" Mr. Hofferson said over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.

"There you go!" Astrid yelled happily, stuffing a fistful of gold coins into Hiccup's hands. "For the Omniculars!"

"I wouldn't bother," Raghilda called. "It's Leprechaun gold; it’ll disappear in a few hours. Swindlers use it to pay their debts all the time."

Astrid groaned, and Hiccup laughed in spite of himself.

"Honestly Astrid, you don't need to repay me," he said. "I got them for you because you wanted them, not because I expected to get something out of it."

Astrid smiled at him, but it was a bittersweet sort of smile. "I know."

The shamrock slowly dissolved; the leprechauns flew out of the arena and back to wherever they had been before.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, kindly welcome—the Bulgarian National Dragon Racing team! I give you—Sven the Serious and his Hotburple, Molten!"

A scarlet-clad man on a dark green Hotburple shot in the arena, moving so fast that they were both a blur. The Bulgarian supporters applauded and cheered wildly.

"Alvilda the Agile and her Deadly Nadder, Blue Streak!"

A second scarlet-clad player zoomed out to join the first, riding upon a bright blue Deadly Nadder, who looked a lot like the one Astrid rode.

"Canute the Calculating and his Stormcutter, Lightning! Endre the Stalwart and his Rumblehorn, Biter! Gosta the Grim and his Razorwhip, Sharp Teeth! Hertha the Powerful and her Gronkle, Chomper! And last, but certainly not least, Thuggory Thorstein and his Moldruffle, Talonblaze!"

The cheering of the Bulgarian fans grew into a frenzied pitch. Clearly, Thuggory was very popular.

"That's him!" Astrid said, looking through her Omniculars once more. Hiccup, Ragnar, and Raghilda quickly followed her lead.

Thuggory was a great hulking brute of a man, with dirty blond hair and a constant scowl on his face. It seemed hard to believe that he was only a few years older than Hiccup, when there were adults who were not as big or muscular as that.

Raghilda scoffed, apparently not impressed. "Dear gods, would it  _ kill _ that man to smile?"

"Look who's talking," Astrid teased.

"I'm not the one who has a crowd cheering their name," Raghilda retorted.

"And now!" Tori yelled, as Thuggory joined his teammates. "Please greet the Irish National Dragon Racing Team! Iona the Intelligent and her Shovelhelm, Clawlifter! Jari the Dauntless and his Thunderclaw, Bonesnarl! Kettil the Robust and his Snifflehunch, Pestbud! Nanna the Keen and her Hobblegrunt, Dawnbreaker! Ove the Observant and his Raincutter, Morning Mist! Runa the Ruthless and her Monstrous Nightmare, Magma! And Sigrun the Patient and her Windstriker, Snaggletooth!"

Seven green blurs shot into the arena, all atop different-looking dragons; Hiccup spun a small dial on the side of his Omnioculars and slowed the players down enough to read the word "Firebolt" on each of their saddles and see their names, embroidered in silver, upon their backs.

"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairviking of the International Association of Dragon Racing, Soini the Sharp, and his Monstrous Nightmare, Ember!"

A small and skinny Viking, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Uncle Björn’s, wearing a uniform of pure gold to match the stadium, rode into the arena on a yellow and brown Monstrous Nightmare. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm. Hiccup spun the speed dial on his Omnioculars back to normal, watching closely as Soini pulled out his warhammer and banged it on the crate—four balls burst into the air: the white Quaffle, the two dark blue Bludgers, and (Hiccup saw it for the briefest moment, before it sped out of sight) the minuscule, winged Dark Snitch. With a sharp blast of Soini’s whistle, the game began.

"Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!" Tori screamed. "And it’s Nanna! Kettil! Ove! Sven! Back to Nanna! Kettil! Endre! Ove!"

It was Dragon Racing as Hiccup had never seen it played before. He was pressing his Omnioculars so hard to his face that they were cutting into the bridge of his nose. The speed of the players was incredible—the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Tori only had time to say their names. Hiccup spun the slow dial on the right of his Omnioculars again, pressed the play-by-play button on the top, and he was immediately watching in slow motion, while glittering purple lettering flashed across the lenses and the noise of the crowd pounded against his eardrums.

HAWKSHEAD ATTACKING FORMATION, he read as he watched the three Irish Chasers zoom closely together, Kettil in the center, slightly ahead of Nanna and Ove, bearing down upon the Bulgarians. PORSKOFF PLOY flashed up next, as Kettil made as though to dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the Bulgarian Chaser Alvilda and dropping the Quaffle to Ove. One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Hertha, swung hard at a passing Bludger with her small club, knocking it into Ove’s path; Ove ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Endre, soaring beneath, caught it —

"NANNA SCORES!" Tori roared, and the arena shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland!"

With a jolt, Hiccup realized that he had still been watching the match in playback. Cursing his own stupidity, he quickly spun his speed dial back to normal as play resumed.

Hiccup knew enough about Dragon Racing to see that the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they and their dragons all appeared to be reading one another’s minds as they positioned themselves, and the rosette on Astrid’s chest kept squeaking their names: "Nanna—Kettil—Ove!" And within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.

The match became still faster, but more brutal. Gosta and Hertha, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Alvilda managed to break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Jari; and score Bulgaria’s first goal.

The cheers of Bulgaria’s supporters were deafening; Hiccup supposed they wanted to make up for the lack of cheering thus far. It eventually died down a bit, and Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.

"Sven! Endre! Sven! Alvilda—oh I say!" Tori roared.

One hundred thousand Vikings and Valkyries gasped as the two Seekers, Thuggory and Sigrun, plummeted through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Hiccup followed their descent through his Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was —

"They’re going to crash!" Ragnar exclaimed suddenly.

He was half right—at the very last second, Thuggory pulled his Moldruffle out of the dive and spiraled off. Sigrun’s Windstriker followed suit. Sigrun, however, slipped out of her saddle and hit one of the pontoons with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.

"Fool!" Mr. Hofferson moaned. "Thuggory was feinting!"

"It’s time-out!" Tori’s voice yelled, "as healers hurry onto the field to examine Sigrun!"

"She’ll be okay, she only hit the pontoon!" Einar said reassuringly to Egill, who was hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. "It hurts more, yeah, but at least she's still in the match…"

Hiccup hastily pressed the replay and play-by-play buttons on his Omnioculars, twiddled the speed dial, and put them back up to his eyes.

He watched as Thuggory and Sigrun’s dragons dived again in slow motion. WRONSKI DEFENSIVE FEINT — DANGEROUS SEEKER DIVERSION read the shining purple lettering across his lenses. He saw Thuggory’s face contorted with concentration as his dragon pulled out of the dive just in time, while Sigrun lost her grip and fell, and he understood—Thuggory hadn’t seen the Snitch at all, he was just making Sigrun copy him. It was a tactic he himself had once used.

Hiccup turned his Omnioculars back to normal and focused them on Thuggory. He was now circling high above Sigrun, who was being revived by healers with cups of potion. Hiccup, focusing still more closely upon Thuggory’s face, saw his dark brown eyes darting all over the ground a hundred feet below. He was using the time while Sigrun was revived to look for the Snitch without interference.

Sigrun got to her feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted her dragon once more, and they back off into the air.

Her revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. When Soini blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything Hiccup had seen so far.

After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier.

As Kettil shot toward the goal posts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under his arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Canute, flew out to meet him. Whatever happened was over so quickly Hiccup didn’t catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Soini’s long, shrill whistle blast, told him it had been a foul.

"And Soini takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing—excessive use of elbows!" Tori informed the roaring spectators. "And—yes, it’s a penalty to Ireland!"

Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything they had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were acting without mercy: Gosta and Hertha in particular seemed not to care whether their clubs made contact with Bludger or human as they swung them violently through the air. Sven’s dragon shot  a blast of flames straight at Ove, who had the Quaffle, and nearly fell off of his dragon in his haste to avoid the flames.

"Foul!" the Irish supporters roared as one, all standing up in a great wave of green.

"Foul!" Tori’s magically magnified voice echoed, sounding equally angry. "Sven’s Hotburple nearly scorched Ove—and it’s got to be another penalty—yes, there’s the whistle!"

The Bulgarian supporters screamed in protest. The Irish supporters screamed back.

Hiccup turned this way and that, staring through his Omnioculars, as the Quaffle changed hands with the speed of a bullet.

"Endre—Sven—Ove— Kettil—Nanna— Alvilda—Ove again—Nanna— NANNA SCORES!"

But the game hardly paused for a second to let the crowd cheer before going right back to it. Now Endre had the Quaffle, now Sven—

The Irish Beater Runa swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Thuggory, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face.

There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Thuggory’s nose looked to be broken, and there was blood everywhere, but the game had become too intense for anyone in it, including the referee, to really notice.

Hiccup wanted someone to realize that Thuggory was injured; even though he was supporting Ireland, Thuggory was the most exciting player. Astrid obviously felt the same.

"Time-out! Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look at him—"

All of a sudden Raghilda shot to her feet. There was a mad, desperate gleam in her eyes, one Hiccup had never seen before.

"LOOK AT SIGRUN!" She bellowed, loud enough for everyone to hear her.

The Irish Seeker’s dragon had suddenly gone into a dive, and Hiccup was quite sure that this was no Wronski Feint; this was the real thing. . . .

"She’s seen the Snitch!" Ragnar shouted. "She’s seen it! Look at her go!"

The Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on…but Thuggory and his Moldruffle were hot on her tail. How Thuggory could see where he was going, Hiccup had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Sigrun now as the pair of them hurtled toward the water again—

"They’re going to crash!" Ragnar cried.

"They’re not!" Astrid roared.

"Sigrun is!" Hiccup yelled.

And he was right—this time, Sigrun and her Windstriker landed in the water, meaning they were now out of the match.

"The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?" Hakon bellowed, along the row.

"He’s got it—Thuggory’s got it—it’s all over!" Hiccup shouted.

Thuggory stood upon his dragon’s back, his fist held high, the snitch clutched tightly in his hand.

The scoreboard was flashing  **BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170** across the crowd, who didn’t seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.

"IRELAND WINS!" Tori shouted; much like the Irish, he seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match.

"THUGGORY GETS THE SNITCH—BUT IRELAND WINS—Sweet Thor, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!"

"What did he catch the Snitch for?" Astrid bellowed, even as she jumped up and down, applauding with her hands over her head. "He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!"

"He knew they were never going to catch up!" Hiccup shouted back over all the noise, also applauding loudly. "The Irish Chasers were too good…He wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all…"

Raghilda hummed at that, leaning forward to watch Thuggory land on a pontoon and dismount, as a swarm of healers hurried over to him. "His nose looks worse than I thought…and he's still scowling."

Hiccup put his Omnioculars to his eyes again. It was hard to see what was happening below, because the leprechauns were returning, zooming delightedly all over the arena, but he could just make out Thuggory, surrounded by healers. He looked surlier than ever and refused to let them mop him up. His team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags were waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blared from all sides.

"Vell, ve fought bravely," a gloomy voice behind Hiccup said. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian Chief.

"You can speak English!" Fudge exclaimed, sounding outraged. "And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!"

"Vell, it vos very funny," the Bulgarian Chief said, shrugging.

Astrid and Raghilda laughed at that; Hiccup and Ragnar resisted the urge to join in.

"And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Dragon Racing World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!" Tori roared.

Hiccup's eyes were suddenly dazzled by a blinding white light, as the Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Squinting toward the entrance, he saw two panting Vikings carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed to Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he’d been using sign language all day for nothing.

"And now, let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers—Bulgaria!" Tori shouted.

And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was applauding appreciatively; Harry could see thousands and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and winking in their direction.

One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of seats in the box, and Tori called out the name of each as they shook hands with their own Chief, and then with Fudge. Thuggory, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. Hiccup noticed that he seemed much less coordinated now that he wasn't on his dragon. He was slightly duck-footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when Thuggory’s name was announced, the entire arena gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.

And then came the Irish team. Sigrun was being supported by Ove and Iona; the crash into the water seemed to have dazed her, and her eyes looked strangely unfocused. But she grinned happily as Kettil and Runa lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd below thundered its approval. Hiccup's hands were numb with clapping.

At last, when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their dragons (Sigrun sat behind Iona on her dragon, as her own dragon had taken most of the damage in the crash. She held tightly onto Iona’s waist, a little more than Hiccup thought would be required, and laid her head on the other woman’s shoulder, grinning in a bemused sort of way), Tori pointed his axe at his throat and dispelled the gust of wind.

"They’ll be talking about this one for years," he said hoarsely, "a really unexpected twist, that…shame it couldn’t have lasted longer…Ah yes…yes, I owe you…how much?"

For Double and Trouble had just scrambled over the backs of their seats and were standing in front of Tori with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched.

* * *

**Victory for Ireland! And for the twins!**

**(And not a victory for Thuggory. Welcome to the favorite character club, sweetie)**

**Highlight of chapter: "(Sigrun sat behind Iona on her dragon, as her own dragon had taken most of the damage in the crash. She held tightly onto Iona’s waist, a little more than Hiccup thought would be required, and laid her head on the other woman’s shoulder, grinning in a bemused sort of way)"**

**(Me finishing this chapter not ten minutes ago: OK, match is done, the Irish team is celebrating... _And_ a cute moment between characters I created today and will likely never use again but now ship)**

**((Yeah Iona and Sigrun are now canonically dating. I'm not really going to do anything with these characters, but...they're dating. And they are cute))**

**Honorary mentions for Winky and the Chimera (and Raghilda, because she's my baby and I love her)**

**Well folks, I'm going to go grab an hour or two of sleep. Bye!**


	9. The Mark of the Screaming Death

**On the name of the marks: Well we already call them "Dragon Marks", so just calling the mark "the dragon mark" felt a tad redundant. It was either "The Mark of the Screaming Death", or "The Mark of the Hideous Zippleback", and in the end the Screaming Death won by virtue of being scarier.**

**On with the chapter!**

* * *

_****Chapter Nine: The Mark of the Screaming Death_

* * *

" _Don’t_ tell your mother you've been gambling," Mr. Hofferson implored Double and Trouble as they all made their way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs.

"Don’t worry, Dad," Double said gleefully, "we've got big plans for this money. We don't want it confiscated."

Mr. Hofferson looked for a moment as though he was going to ask what these big plans were, but seemed to decide, upon reflection, that he didn’t want to know.

They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding out of the arena and back to their campsites. Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night air as they retraced their steps along the torch-lit path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at all, and given the level of noise around them, Mr. Hofferson agreed that they could all have one last cup of cocoa together before turning in. They were soon arguing enjoyably about the match; Mr. Hofferson got drawn into a disagreement about cobbing with Einar, and it was only when Ragnar fell asleep right at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that Mr. Hofferson called a halt to the verbal replays and insisted that everyone go to bed.

From the other side of the campsite they could still hear singing and hollering and the odd echoing bang. It would seem that the celebration wasn't going to stop anytime soon.

"Don't envy the ministry workers much," Astrid yawned, as she and Hiccup dragged Ragnar towards the second tent. "Telling the irish to quiet down’ll be a bloody nightmare."

"I bet your father and Askeladden are glad they aren't on duty," Raghilda said, holding one of the tent flaps up so they could get in easier.

Hakon, who would be staying in the second tent with them, shot Raghilda an incredulous look. "Excuse me, young lady, but have you met my brother? Berk didn't give the title of "the Strict" for nothing."

Raghilda giggled. "Fair enough, fair enough."

Hiccup and Astrid deposited Ragnar onto the closest bed, having learned the hard way that once he was asleep, it was best to simply leave him that way. They, Raghilda, and Hakon quickly changed into their pajamas, Hiccup and Hakon facing one way, and the girls facing the other.

"Alright girls, Ragnar’s already in one bunk, so you'll have to take the other," Hakon said.

"What about you?" Astrid asked. "There are only two bunks. Where are you sleeping?"

Hakon winked at her, and pulled out a small, charred log of wood; Hiccup imagined that he'd taken it from the fire they'd made hours ago. Setting it on the ground, Hakon pulled out his axe and, with a second, slightly dramatic wink, he transfigured the log into a bed almost identical to their bunks, save for the fact that it was singular.

Astrid rolled her eyes. "Was that really necessary?"

"Well I _do_ need a bed, sis…"

"That isn't what I meant and you know it."

Hakon laughed. "Come on Astrid, that was too easy." He yawned and got into his bed. "Alright, seriously you lot, lights out. We’re getting up early tomorrow, too."

"I'm sure Ragnar’ll _love_ that," Astrid muttered, just loud enough for Hiccup to hear.

"At least we know where to find the water to dump on his head," Hiccup said, as he climbed the ladder to his bunk.

Astrid covered her mouth so that her laughter was muffled. "Night, Hiccup," she said when she had recovered.

"Sweet dreams, Milady." Sensing a response from Raghilda, he quickly tacked on "You too, Raggy."

"Good night."

Hiccup settled into his bunk, staring up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, watching the glow of an occasional leprechaun lantern flying overhead, and picturing again some of Thuggory’s more spectacular moves. He was itching to see Toothless again, to be able to fly, and perhaps try out the Wronski Feint…he would have to learn just how to do it…Hiccup saw himself in a uniform that had his name on the back, and imagined the sensation of hearing a hundred-thousand-strong crowd roar, as Tori the Crafty’s voice echoed throughout the stadium, "I give you…Hiccup Haddock!"

Hiccup never knew whether or not he had actually fallen asleep—his fantasies of flying like Thuggory might well have slipped into actual dreams—all he knew was that, quite suddenly, Hakon was shouting.

"Get up! Hiccup—help me wake up Ragnar—hurry, this is urgent!"

Hiccup sat up quickly, and the top of his head hit canvas.

" ’S’ matter?" he said.

Dimly, he could tell that something was wrong. The noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of people running. He slipped down from the bunk and reached for his clothes, but Hakon said, "No time, Hiccup—just get outside—wait with the girls—quickly!"

Hiccup did as he was told and hurried out of the tent.

By the light of the few fires that were still burning, he could see people running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across the field toward them, something that was emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward them; then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene.

A crowd of Vikings, tightly packed and moving together with weapons pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field. Hiccup squinted at them…They didn’t seem to have faces…Then he realized that their heads were hooded, and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked Vikings on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the weapons into the air. Two of the figures were very small.

More Vikings were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled. Once or twice Hiccup saw one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with his weapon. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder.

The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent and Harry recognized one of them: Fiske, the campsite manager. The other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flipped Fiske’s wife upside down with his sword; her nightdress fell down to reveal voluminous drawers, and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee.

"That’s sick," Raghilda said, watching helplessly as the smallest Muggle child, who couldn't be any older than five, began to spin like a top, sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. "That is fucking _sick_ …"

Ragnar and Egill came hurrying toward them, Double and Trouble right behind them, and Hakon bringing up the rear. At the same moment, Einar, Askeladden, and Mr. Hofferson emerged from the other tent, fully dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and their weapons out.

"We’re going to help the Ministry!" Hakon shouted over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. "You lot—get into the woods, and stick together. I'll come and fetch you when we’ve sorted this out!"

Einar, Askeladden, and Mr. Hofferson were already sprinting away toward the oncoming marchers; Hakon spun on his heel and tore after them. Ministry Vikings were dashing from every direction toward the source of the trouble.

The crowd beneath Fiske and his family was coming ever closer.

"C’mon," Double said, grabbing Egill’s shoulder and starting to pull him toward the wood. Hiccup, Ragnar, Trouble, and the girls followed. They all looked back as they reached the trees. The crowd was larger than ever; they could see the Ministry Vikings trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the center, but they were having great difficulty. It looked as though they were scared to perform any spell that might make the Muggle family fall.

The colored torches that had lit the path to the arena had been extinguished. Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around them in the cold night air. Hiccup felt himself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces he could not see. Then he heard Astrid yell with pain.

Without even thinking twice Hiccup summoned a bit of fire into his hand, illuminating the area around him. This allowed him to see Astrid, who was sprawled out on the ground a few steps away.

"What happened?" he asked, hurrying to help her up again.

"Tripped over a tree root," Astrid grumbled, clearly embarrassed.

"You'll want to watch your step there, darling," a voice behind them drawled.

Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls turned sharply. Snotlout Jorgenson was standing alone nearby, leaning against a tree, looking utterly relaxed. His arms folded, he seemed to have been watching the scene at the campsite through a gap in the trees.

Astrid told Snotlout to do something Hiccup was fairly certain was physically impossible.

Snotlout laughed, gesturing towards the campsite. "This is far more fun, though, darling. Why don't you come and join me?"

Astrid started towards him, but Hiccup held her back.

"Let her go, Useless," Snotlout barked.

"Believe me, if I wasn't concerned about the trouble she would get into for ripping off your head, I would," Hiccup fired back.

At that moment, a blast like a bomb sounded from the campsite, and a green flash of light momentarily lit up the trees around them. Several people screamed.

Snotlout laughed again. "Scare easily, don't they? I bet Bjartr told you all to run and hide. Where is he—trying to save the Muggles?"

"Where are _your_ parents, then?" Hiccup hissed, his temper flaring. "Out there wearing masks, are they?"

Snotlout shot him a nasty smile.

"Well…if they were, I wouldn't be stupid enough to tell _you_ that, now would I, Useless?"

"Could have fooled me," Raghilda said dryly.

"Come on," Ragnar said, with a disgusted look at Snotlout, "let's go and find the others."

He and Raghilda lead the group now, with Hiccup and Astrid a few steps behind them.

"I'll bet you anything that his parents _are_ in that crowd!" Astrid fumed.

"With any luck, the Ministry’ll catch them," Hiccup told her. "But we can't focus on the Jorgensons right now. We still need to find the others."

Double, Trouble, and Egill were nowhere to be seen, though the path was packed with plenty of other people, all looking nervously over their shoulders toward the commotion back at the campsite. A huddle of teenagers in pajamas was arguing a little way along the path, though what exactly they were saying was unclear; they were speaking so quickly that it took Hiccup a moment to realize that the argument was in French, and even then he could not manage to understand it, because they were simply going too fast.

"Bog Burglars," Raghilda muttered.

"Sorry?" Hiccup said.

"Bog Burglars," Raghilda said, nodding towards the group. "The Bog Burglars Academy of Magic and Dragon Riding…that group there must be a bunch of their students."

"How did you know that?"Ragnar asked.

"I heard one of them say the headmistress’ name," Raghilda replied. "Headmistress Bertha the Unbridled…also known by the rather unfortunate name of Big-Boobied Bertha."

Ragnar blushed. "I did _not_ need to know that last part."

"You did ask…"

They walked in silence for a little while longer.

"Might need a bit more light, Hiccup,"Astrid said suddenly, squinting up the path.

Hiccup nodded, and dug in the pockets of his pyjama trousers for his crystal eye—but it wasn't there.

"Ah, no, I don’t believe it…"

"What's wrong?" Raghilda asked.

"My crystal eye is gone!"

"Maybe you left it in the tent?" Ragnar suggested.

"No way—I always have it on me…"

A rustling noise nearby made all three of them jump. Winky the house-elf was fighting her way out of a clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it was as though someone invisible were trying to hold her back.

"There is bad Vikings about!" she squeaked distractedly as she leaned forward and labored to keep running. "People high—high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!"

And she disappeared into the trees on the other side of the path, panting and squeaking as she fought the force that was restraining her.

"What’s up with her?" Astrid said, looking curiously after Winky. "Why can’t she run properly?"

"Bet she didn’t ask permission to hide," Hiccup said. He was thinking of Dobby: Every time he had tried to do something the Jorgensons wouldn’t like, the house-elf had been forced to start beating himself up.

"Poor girl," Raghilda said mournfully. "I wouldn't put it past Kronos to have ordered her to stay in the tent…"

Another loud bang echoed from the edge of the wood, and they set off again, Hiccup still searching his pockets, even though he knew his crystal eye wasn't there.

They followed the dark path deeper into the wood, still keeping an eye out for Double, Trouble, and Egill. They passed a group of Dwarves who were cackling over a sack of gold that they had undoubtedly won betting on the match, and who seemed quite unperturbed by the trouble at the campsite.

They were in the very heart of the wood now. They seemed to be alone; everything was much quieter.

Hiccup looked around. "I think we can just wait here. We’ll hear anyone coming a mile off."

The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Tori the Crafty emerged from behind a tree right ahead of them.

Even by the feeble light of the flames in his hand, Hiccup could see that a great change had come over Tori. He no longer looked buoyant and rosy-faced; there was no more spring in his step. He looked very white and strained.

"Who’s that?" he said, blinking down at them, trying to make out their faces. "What are you doing in here, all alone? Shouldn't you be back at your campsite?"

They looked at one another, surprised.

"Well—there's a sort of riot going on," Astrid said.

Tori stared at her.

"What?"

"At the campsite…some people have got hold of a family of Muggles…"

Tori swore loudly.

"Damn them!" he said, looking quite distracted, and without another word, he Teleported away.

"Not exactly on top of things, is he?" Ragnar said, frowning.

Raghilda scoffed. "That's a bloody understatement."

"He was a great Beater, though," Astrid said, leading the way off the path into a small clearing, and sitting down on a patch of dry grass at the foot of a tree. "The Wimbourne Wasps won the league three times in a row while he was with them."

Hiccup was listening for noise from the campsite. Everything seemed much quieter; perhaps the riot was over.

"I hope the others are okay," Raghilda said after a while.

"They’ll be fine," Astrid said, though she didn't sound like she believed it.

"Imagine if your dad catches Snotlout’s parents," Hiccup said, sitting down next to her. "He’s always said he’d like to get something on Spitelout; maybe this is his chance."

"That’d wipe the smirk off Snotlout’s face, all right," Astrid said, grinning slightly.

"Those poor Muggles, though," Ragnar said nervously. "What if they can’t get them down?"

"They will," Hiccup said. "They’ll find a way."

"Mad, though, to do something like that when the whole Ministry’s here," Astrid said. "I mean, how in Thor’s name do they expect to get away with it? Do you think they’ve been drinking, or are they just—"

But she broke off abruptly and looked over her shoulder. Hiccup, Ragnar and Raghilda looked quickly around too. It sounded as though someone was staggering toward their clearing. They waited, listening to the sounds of the uneven steps behind the dark trees. But the footsteps came to a sudden halt.

"Hello?" Hiccup called.

Silence.

Hiccup got to his feet and peered around the tree. It was too dark to see very far, but he could sense somebody standing just beyond the range of his vision.

"Who's there?" he said.

And then, without warning, the silence was rent by a voice unlike any they had heard in the wood; a long, furious, violent scream, one that made every hair on the back of Hiccup's neck stand up.

And something vast, green, and glittering erupted from the patch of darkness Hiccup's eyes had been struggling to penetrate; it flew up over the treetops and into the sky.

"What the—?" Astrid gasped as she sprang to her feet again, staring up at the thing that had appeared.

For a split second, Hiccup thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then he realized that it had formed into a dragon; at first glance it looked like a Whispering Death, with its serpent-like tail, large head and spines—but it was bigger, with sharper-looking teeth and spines, and a lot more of them than any Whispering Death.

It was a Screaming Death.

As they watched, the figure rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation.

Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with screams. Hiccup didn’t understand why, but the only possible cause was the sudden appearance of the dragon, which had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. He scanned the darkness for the person who had conjured the beast, but he couldn’t see anyone.

"Who’s there?" he called again.

"Hiccup, move!" Astrid had seized the collar of his pyjama top and was tugging him backward.

"What’s the matter?" Hiccup said, startled to see her face so white and terrified.

"It’s the mark," Astrid said, pulling him as hard as she could. "The mark of the Dragon Lord. And if it's up again…Hiccup, we have to go. _Now_."

Hiccup turned—Ragnar and Raghilda exchanged worried glances— the four of them started across the clearing—but before they had taken a few hurried steps, a series of whooshing sounds announced the arrival of twenty Vikings, appearing from thin air, surrounding them.

Hiccup whirled around, and in an instant, he registered one fact: Each of these Vikings had their weapon out, and every one of them was pointing right at himself, Astrid, Ragnar, and Raghilda.

Without pausing to think, he yelled, "DUCK!"

Ragnar and Raghilda obeyed instantly; he seized Astrid around the waist and pulled her down onto the ground as well, angling himself so that any attack aimed at them would hit him instead of her.

There was a blinding series of flashes, and Hiccup felt the hair on his head ripple as though a powerful wind had swept the clearing. Raising his head a fraction of an inch he saw various attacks flying over them—

"STOP!" a voice he recognized yelled. "STOP! _MY DAUGHTER IS OUT THERE_!"

Hiccup's hair stopped blowing about. He raised his head a little higher to see that the Vikings in front of him had lowered their weapons. He rolled off of Astrid and saw Mr. Hofferson striding toward them, looking terrified.

"Hiccup—Astrid—" his voice sounded shaky—"Are you alright?"

"Out of the way, Bjartr," a cold, curt voice demanded.

It was Kronos the Tenacious. He and the other Ministry Vikings were closing in on them. Hiccup got to his feet to face them, reaching down to help Astrid.

Kronos’s face was taut with rage.

"Which of you did it?" he snapped, his sharp eyes darting between them, Ragnar, and Raghilda. "Which of you four conjured the mark?"

"We didn’t conjure the mark!" Astrid exclaimed, glaring at Kronos. "Have you lost your mind?!"

"Astrid, don't be rude," Mr. Hofferson pleaded quietly.

"Do not lie to me, girl!" Kronos shouted. His sword was still pointing directly at Astrid, and his eyes were popping—he looked slightly mad. "You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!"

"Kronos," one of the Ministry Vikings said, as Hiccup tugged Astrid away from the tip of Kronos’s sword, "they’re just kids, Kronos, they’d never have been able to—"

"Where did the mark come from, you three?" Mr. Hofferson asked.

"Over there," Raghilda said, pointing at the place where they had heard the voice. "There was someone behind the trees, screaming his head off…that's where the mark came from."

"Is that so?" Kronos said, turning his popping eyes onto Raghilda; disbelief was written all over his face. "Awfully _convenient_ that you couldn't see the culprit, then, isn't it?"

Silence fell over the group. Raghilda’s eyes narrowed.

"Are you calling me a liar, Kronos?" she asked, her voice colder than ice.

"Oh, now he's done it," Astrid said.

Kronos did not appear to have understood just what sort of monster he'd unleashed. "You have no evidence for your claim."

Raghilda looked him dead in the eye, and without warning she grabbed a hold of her nightgown collar and pulled it down just enough to reveal a strange marking on her chest; three overlapping triangles, each with a rune within them.

"The mark of the Norns," Raghilda said, her gaze never wavering. "There's my evidence."

Kronos staggered backwards, his eyes widening. "Sweet Thor—"

"Call me a liar again," Raghilda hissed. "I _fucking dare you_."

Kronos didn't answer.

Hiccup wasn't sure how Raghilda showing them her marking counted as evidence, but it was apparently good enough for the Ministry Vikings; they were now aiming their weapons in the direction she had pointed, although they all appeared to have taken a few steps back.

"They'll have Teleported by now," one of the Vikings said.

"I don’t think so," a Viking with a scrubby brown beard said. It was Asmund the Adamant, Erik’s father. "Our Stunners went right through those trees…There’s a good chance we got them…"

"Asmund, be careful!" a few of the Vikings said warningly, as Asmund squared his shoulders, raised his axe, marched across the clearing, and disappeared into the darkness.

Raghilda rejoined Hiccup and Astrid, her gaze still trained onto Kronos.

"Um, Raghilda?" Hiccup asked.

"Yes?"

"How exactly did show them your marking count as evidence?"

Raghilda finally looked away from Kronos and smiled slightly. "A Völva is meant to speak the words of the Norns. To prevent us from abusing our power, they take away our ability to lie." In a lower voice, she added, "Of course, lying and not telling the truth are two _slightly_ different things, but most people don't know that."

"Yes!" Asmund’s voice cried suddenly. "We got them! There’s someone here! Unconscious! It's—but—oh, _blimey_ …"

"You’ve got someone?" Kronos shouted, sounding highly disbelieving. "Who? Who is it?"

They heard snapping twigs, the rustling of leaves, and then crunching footsteps as Asmund reemerged from behind the trees. He was carrying a tiny, limp figure in his arms. Hiccup recognized the tea towel at once.

It was Winky.

Kronos did not move or speak as Asmund deposited his house-elf on the ground at his feet. The other Ministry Vikings were all staring at Kronos. For a few seconds Kronos remained transfixed, his eyes blazing in his white face as he stared down at Winky. Then he appeared to come to life again.

"This—cannot—be," he said jerkily. "No—"

He moved quickly around Asmund and strode off toward the place where he had found Winky.

"Not much point, Kronos," Asmund called after him. "There’s no one else there."

But Kronos did not seem prepared to take his word for it. They could hear him moving around and the rustling of leaves as he pushed the bushes aside, searching.

"Bit embarrassing," Asmund said grimly, looking down at Winky’s unconscious form. "Kronos’ house-elf…I mean to say…"

"Come off it, Asmund," Mr. Hofferson said quietly, "you don’t seriously think it was the elf, do you? The mark is a Viking’s sign. It requires a crystal eye."

"Yeah," Asmund said, "and she had a crystal eye."

"What?" Mr. Hofferson said.

"Here, look." Asmund held up a crystal eye and showed it to Mr. Hofferson. "Had it in her hand. So that’s clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a start. _No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a crystal eye_."

Hiccup looked at Astrid. "That's a law?"

Astrid shrugged. "Apparently."

Just then there was another whoosh, and Tori the Crafty appeared right next to Mr. Hofferson. Looking breathless and disorientated, he spun on the spot, goggling upward at the emerald-green Screaming Death.

"The mark!" he panted, almost trampling Winky as he turned inquiringly to his colleagues. "Who did it? Did you get them? Kronos! What’s going on?"

Kronos had returned empty-handed. His face was still ghostly white, and his hands were twitching violently.

"Where have you _been_ , Kronos?" Tori asked. "Why weren’t you at the match? Your elf was saving you a seat too—dear gods!" Tori had just noticed Winky lying at his feet. "What happened to her?"

"I have been busy, Tori," Kronos said, still talking in the same jerky fashion, barely moving his lips. "And my elf has been stunned."

"Stunned? By you lot, you mean? But why—?"

Comprehension dawned suddenly on Tori’s round, shiny face; he looked up at the dragon, down at Winky, and then at Kronos.

"No!" he said. "Winky? Conjure the mark? She wouldn’t know how! She’d need a crystal eye, for a start!"

"And she had one," Asmund said. "I found her holding one, Tori. If it’s alright with you, Kronos, I think we should hear what she’s got to say for herself."

Kronos gave no sign that he had heard Asmund, but Asmund seemed to take his silence for assent. He raised his axe over Winky, and a stream of water poured from it, splashing against Winky’s face.

Winky stirred feebly. Her great brown eyes opened and she blinked several times in a bemused sort of way. Watched by the silent Vikings, she raised herself shakily into a sitting position. She caught sight of Asmund’s feet, and slowly, tremulously, raised her eyes to stare up into his face; then, more slowly still, she looked up into the sky. Hiccup could see the Screaming Death reflected twice in her enormous, glassy eyes. She gave a gasp, looked wildly around the crowded clearing, and burst into terrified sobs.

"Elf!" Asmund said sternly. "Do you know who I am? I’m a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!"

Winky began to rock backward and forward on the ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Hiccup was reminded forcibly of Dobby in his moments of terrified disobedience.

"As you can see, elf, the mark was conjured here a short while ago," Asmund said. "And you were discovered moments later, right beneath it! An explanation, if you please!"

"I—I—I is not doing it, sir!" Winky gasped. "I is not knowing how, sir!"

"You were found with a crystal eye in your hand!" Asmund barked, brandishing it in front of her. And as the crystal eye caught the green light that was filling the clearing from the dragon above, Hiccup recognized it.

"Hey—that’s mine!" he said.

Everyone in the clearing looked at him.

"Excuse me?" Asmund said, incredulously.

"That’s my crystal eye!" Hiccup said. "I dropped it!"

"You dropped it?" Asmund repeated in disbelief. "Is this a confession? You threw it aside after you conjured the mark?"

"Asmund, think who you’re talking to!" Mr. Hofferson said, very angrily. "Is _Hiccup Haddock_ likely to conjure the mark?"

"Er—no, of course not," Asmund mumbled. "Sorry…got a bit carried away…"

"I didn’t drop it there, anyway," Hiccup said, jerking his thumb toward the trees beneath the Screaming Death. "I missed it right after we got into the wood."

"So," Asmund said, his eyes hardening as he turned to look at Winky again, cowering at his feet. "You found this crystal eye, eh, elf? And you picked it up and thought you’d have some fun with it, did you?"

"I is not doing magic with it, sir!" Winky squealed, tears streaming down the sides of her squashed and bulbous nose. "I is…I is…I is just picking it up, sir! I is not making the mark, sir, I is not knowing how!"

"It wasn’t her!" Ragnar said suddenly. "Winky’s got a squeaky little voice, and scream we heard didn't sound anything like her voice—it was much deeper!"

"Well, we’ll soon see," Asmund growled, looking unimpressed. "There’s a simple way of discovering the last spell a wand performed, elf, did you know that?"

Winky trembled and shook her head frantically, her ears flapping, as Asmund raised his own axe again and pointed it at Hiccup’s crystal eye.

Hiccup heard Astrid suck in another horrified breath as a gigantic Screaming Death erupted from his crystal eye, but it was a mere shadow of the green one high above them; it looked as though it were made of thick gray smoke: the ghost of an attack. It last for only a moment, before fading away.

"So," Asmund said with a kind of savage triumph, looking down upon Winky, who was still shaking convulsively.

"I is not doing it!" she squealed, her eyes rolling in terror. "I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a good house-elf, I isn’t using crystal eyes, I isn’t knowing how!"

" _You’ve been caught red-handed, elf_ !" Asmund roared. " _Caught with the guilty crystal eye in your hand_!"

"Asmund," Mr. Hofferson said loudly, "think about it…precious few Vikings know how to do that spell…Where would she have learned it?"

"Perhaps Asmund is suggesting," Kronos said, cold anger in every syllable, "that I routinely teach my servants to conjure the mark?"

There was a deeply unpleasant silence. Asmund looked horrified. "Kronos…not…not at all…"

"You have now come very close to accusing the two people in this clearing who are _least_ likely to conjure that mark!" Kronos barked. "Hiccup Haddock—and myself! I suppose you are familiar with the boy’s story, Asmund?"

"Of course—everyone knows—" Asmund muttered, looking highly uncomfortable.

"And I trust you remember the many proofs I have given, over a long career, that I despise and detest the Dark Arts and those who practice them?" Kronos shouted, his eyes bulging again.

"Kronos, I—I never suggested you had anything to do with it!" Asmund muttered again, now reddening behind his scrubby brown beard.

"If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Asmund!" Kronos shouted. "Where else would she have learned to conjure it?"

"She—she might’ve picked it up anywhere—"

"Precisely, Asmund," Mr. Hofferson said. "She might have picked it up anywhere…Winky?" he said kindly, turning to the house-elf, but she flinched as though he too was shouting at her. "Where exactly did you find Hiccup's crystal eye?"

Winky was twisting the hem of her tea towel so violently that it was fraying beneath her fingers.

"I—I is finding it…finding it there, sir…" she whispered, "there…in the trees, sir…"

"You see, Asmund?" Mr. Hofferson said. "Whoever conjured the mark could have Teleported right after they’d done it, leaving Hiccup's crystal eye behind. A clever thing to do, not using their own crystal eye, which could have betrayed them. And Winky here had the misfortune to come across the crystal eye moments later and pick it up."

"But then, she’d have been only a few feet away from the real culprit!" Asmund said impatiently. "Elf? Did you see anyone?"

Winky began to tremble worse than ever. Her giant eyes flickered from Asmund, to Tori, and onto Kronos. Then she gulped and said, "I is seeing no one, sir…no one…"

"Asmund," Kronos said curtly, "I am fully aware that, in the ordinary course of events, you would want to take Winky into your department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her."

Asmund looked as though he didn’t think much of this suggestion at all, but it was clear to Hiccup that Kronos was such an important member of the Ministry that he did not dare refuse him.

"You may rest assured that she will be punished," Kronos added coldly.

"M-m-master…" Winky stammered, looking up at Kronos, her eyes brimming with tears. "M-m-master, p-p-please…"

Kronos stared back, his face somehow sharpened, each line upon it more deeply etched. There was no pity in his gaze.

"Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible," he said slowly. "I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she disobeyed me. _This means clothes_."

"No!" Winky shrieked, prostrating herself at Kronos’s feet. "No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!"

Hiccup knew that the only way to turn a house-elf free was to present it with proper garments. It was pitiful to see the way Winky clutched at her tea towel as she sobbed over Kronos’s feet.

"But she was frightened!" Ragnar burst out angrily, glaring at Kronos. "Your house-elf ’s scared of heights, and those Vikings in masks were levitating people! You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of their way!"

Kronos took a step backward, freeing himself from contact with Winky, whom he was surveying as though she were something filthy and rotten that was contaminating his over-shined boots.

"I have no use for a house-elf who disobeys me," he said coldly, looking over at Ragnar. "I have no use for a servant who forgets what is due to her master, and to her master’s reputation."

Winky was crying so hard that her sobs echoed around the clearing. There was a very nasty silence, which was ended by Mr. Hofferson, who said quietly, "Well, I think I’ll take my lot back to the tent, if nobody’s got any objections. Asmund, that crystal eye has told us all that it can—if Hiccup could have it back, please—"

Asmund handed Hiccup his crystal eye, and Hiccup pocketed it.

"Come on, you four," Mr. Hofferson said quietly. But Ragnar didn’t seem to want to move; his eyes were still upon the sobbing Winky. "Ragnar!" Mr. Hofferson said, more urgently. Ragnar turned and followed Hiccup and the girls out of the clearing and off through the trees.

"What’s going to happen to Winky?" Ragnar asked, the moment they had left the clearing.

"I don’t know," Mr. Hofferson said.

"The way they were treating her!" Ragnar said furiously. "Asmund calling her ‘elf ’ all the time…and Kronos! He knows she didn’t do it and he’s still going to sack her! He didn’t care how frightened she’d been, or how upset she was—"

"Ragnar, I agree with you," Mr. Hofferson said quickly, beckoning him on, "but now is not the time to discuss elf rights. I want to get back to the tent as fast as we can. What happened to the others?"

"We lost them in the dark," Astrid said.

Mr. Hofferson cursed under his breath. "With any luck, they've made it back to the tent…"

They soon reached the edge of the wood. A large crowd of frightened-looking Vikings and Valkyries was congregated there, and when they saw Mr. Hofferson coming toward them, many of them surged forward.

"What’s going on in there?"

"Who conjured it?"

"Bjartr—it’s not—Him?"

"Of course it’s not Him," Mr. Hofferson said impatiently. "We don’t know who it was; it looks like they Teleported. Now excuse me, please, I want to get to bed."

He led Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls through the crowd and back into the campsite. All was quiet now; there was no sign of the masked Vikings, though several ruined tents were still smoking. Einar’s head was poking out of the first tent.

"Dad, what’s going on?" he called through the dark. "Double, Trouble, and Egill got back okay, but the others—"

"I’ve got them here," Mr. Hofferson said, bending down and entering the tent. Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls entered after him.

Hakon was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely. Einar had a large rip in his tunic, and Askeladden was sporting a bloody nose. Double, Trouble, and Egill looked unhurt, though shaken.

"Did you get them, Dad?" Hakon asked sharply. "The person who conjured the mark?"

"No," Mr. Hofferson said. "We found Kronos the Tenacious’ house-elf holding Hiccup's crystal eye, but we’re none the wiser about who actually conjured the mark."

"What?" Hakon, Einar, and Askeladden said together.

"Hiccup's crystal eye?" Double said.

"Kronos the Tenacious’ house-elf?" Askeladden said, sounding thunderstruck.

With some assistance from Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls, Mr. Hofferson explained what had happened in the woods. When they had finished their story, Askeladden swelled indignantly.

"Well, Kronos the Tenacious is quite right to get rid of an elf like that!" he said. "Running away when he’d expressly told her not to…embarrassing him in front of the whole Ministry…how would that have looked, if she’d been brought up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control—"

"She didn’t do anything—she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!" Ragnar snapped at Askeladden, who looked very taken aback. Ragnar had always got on fairly well with Askeladden—better, indeed, than any of the others.

"Ragnar, a Viking in Kronos the Tenacious’ position can’t afford a house-elf who’s going to run amok with a crystal eye!" Askeladden said pompously, recovering himself.

"She didn’t run amok!" Ragnar shouted. "She just picked it up off the ground!"

"Look, can someone just explain what that dragon thing was?" Egill said impatiently. "It wasn’t hurting anyone…Why’s it such a big deal?"

"It was the mark," Astrid said, shuddering. "The mark of the Dragon Lord."

"And it hasn’t been seen for thirteen years," Mr. Hofferson said quietly. "Of course people panicked…it was almost like seeing the Dragon Lord back again."

There was silence for a moment. Then Hakon, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, said, "Well, it didn’t help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Dragon Marks away the moment they saw it. They all Teleported before we’d gotten near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Muggles before they hit the ground, though. They’re having their memories modified right now."

"Dragon Marks?" Hiccup asked.

"It’s what the Dragon Lord’s supporters called themselves, after the mark itself," Hakon said. "I think we saw what’s left of them tonight—the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway."

"We can’t prove it was them, Hakon," Mr. Hofferson said. "Though it probably was," he added hopelessly.

"Yeah, I bet it was!" Astrid said suddenly. "Dad, we met Snotlout Jorgenson in the woods, and he as good as told us his parents were some of those nutters in masks! And we all know the Jorgensons were right in with the Dragon Lord!"

"But what were Drago’s supporters—" Hiccup began. Everyone but the girls flinched—like most of the Viking world, the Hoffersons always avoided saying Drago Bludvist’s name. "Sorry," Hiccup said quickly. "What were the Dragon Lord’s supporters up to, levitating Muggles? I mean, what was the point?"

"The point?" Mr. Hofferson said with a hollow laugh. "Hiccup, that’s their idea of _fun_. Half the Muggle killings back when the Dragon Lord was in power were done for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight and couldn’t resist reminding us all that lots of them are still at large. A nice little reunion for them," he finished disgustedly.

"But if they were the Dragon Marks, why did they Teleport when they saw the mark?" Astrid said. "They’d have been pleased to see it, wouldn’t they?"

"Not exactly" Raghilda said. "If they really were Dragon Marks, they worked very hard to keep out of Azkaban when Drago lost power, and told all sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and torture people. I bet they’d be even more frightened than the rest of us to see him come back. They denied they’d ever been involved with him when he lost his powers, and went back to their daily lives…I don’t think he’d be very happy with them, do you?"

"So…whoever conjured the mark…" Ragnar said slowly, "were they doing it to show support for the Dragon Marks, or to scare them away?"

"Your guess is as good as ours, Ragnar," Mr. Hofferson said. "But I’ll tell you this…it was only the Dragon Marks who ever knew how to conjure it. I’d be very surprised if the person who did it hadn’t been a Dragon Mark once, even if they’re not now…Listen, it’s very late, and if your mother hears what’s happened she’ll be worried sick. We’ll get a few more hours sleep and then try and get an early Portkey out of here."

Hiccup went back to his bunk with his head buzzing. He knew he ought to feel exhausted: It was nearly three in the morning, but he felt wide-awake—wide-awake, and worried.

Three days ago—it felt like much longer, but it had only been three days—he had awoken with his scar burning. And tonight, for the first time in thirteen years, Drago Bludvist’s mark had appeared in the sky. What did these things mean?

He thought of the letter he had written to Alvin before leaving Privet Drive. Would Alvin have gotten it yet? When would he reply? Hiccup lay looking up at the canvas, but no flying fantasies came to him now to ease him to sleep, and it was a long time after Ragnar’s snores filled the tent that Hiccup finally dozed off.

* * *

**...Well, that could have gone better.**

**But I'm the author, so of course it didn't.**

**Highlight of chapter: Raghilda getting pissed at Kronos and revealing her mark.**

**Also this scene: "** **Hiccup whirled around, and in an instant, he registered one fact: Each of these Vikings had their weapon out, and every one of them was pointing right at himself, Astrid, Ragnar, and Raghilda.**

**Without pausing to think, he yelled, "DUCK!"**

**Ragnar and Raghilda obeyed instantly; he seized Astrid around the waist and pulled her down onto the ground as well, angling himself so that any attack aimed at them would hit him instead of her.** **"**

**(For those keeping track, that's the second time we've seen Hiccup try to act as a human shield for Astrid)**


	10. Mayhem at the Ministry

**This is a relatively short chapter.**

_**Why did it take me so long to finish it.** _

* * *

_Chapter Nine: Mayhem at the Ministry_

* * *

Mr. Hofferson woke them after only a few hours sleep. He used wind magic to pack up the tents, and they left the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Fiske at the door of his cottage. The man had a strange, dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a vague "Merry Snoggletog."

"He’ll be alright," Mr. Hofferson said quietly as they marched off onto the moor. "Sometimes, when a person’s memory is modified, it makes them a bit disorientated for a while…and that was a big thing they had to make him forget."

They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when they reached it, they found a great number of Vikings and Valkyries gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamoring to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible. Mr. Hofferson had a hurried discussion with Basil; they joined the queue, and were able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had really risen. They walked back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because they were so exhausted, and thinking longingly of their breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane.

"Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!"

Mrs. Hofferson, who had evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, came running toward them, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand.

"Bjartr—I've been so worried—so worried—"

She flung her arms around Mr. Hofferson’s neck, and the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the ground. Looking down, Hiccup saw the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE DRAGON RACING WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of the mark of the Screaming Death over the treetops.

"You're all right," Mrs. Hofferson muttered distractedly, releasing Mr. Hofferson and staring around at them all with red eyes, "you’re alive…Oh _boys…_ "

And to everybody’s surprise, she seized Double and Trouble and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads banged together.

"Ouch! Mum—Mum, you're _strangling_ us—"

"I shouted at you before you left!" Mrs. Hofferson said, starting to sob. "It's all I’ve been thinking about! What if the Dragon Lord had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough V.A.L.s? Oh Double…Trouble…"

"Come on, now, Ingrid, we’re all perfectly okay," Mr. Hofferson said soothingly, prising her off the twins and leading her back toward the house. "Hakon," he added in an undertone, "pick up that paper, I want to see what it says…"

When they were all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and Raghilda had made Mrs. Hofferson a cup of very strong tea, into which Mr. Hofferson insisted on pouring a shot of Ogdens Old Firewhiskey, Hakon handed his father the newspaper. Mr. Hofferson scanned the front page while Askeladden looked over his shoulder.

"I knew it," Mr. Hofferson said, sighing heavily. "Ministry blunders…culprits not apprehended…lax security…Dark Vikings running unchecked…national disgrace…Who wrote this? Ah…of course…Skeeter the Scandalous."

Raghilda said a string of obscenities under her breath.

"That woman’s got it in for the Ministry!" Askeladden said furiously. "Last week she was saying we’re wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn’t specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Viking Part-Humans—"

"Do us a favor, Ask," Hakon said, yawning, "and shut up."

"I’m mentioned," Mr. Hofferson said, his eyes widening as he reached the bottom of the Daily Prophet article.

"Where?" Mrs. Hofferson spluttered, choking on her tea and whiskey. "If I’d seen that, I'd have known you were alive!"

"Not by name," Mr. Hofferson said. "Listen to this: ‘If the terrified Vikings and Valkyries who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Dragon Ministry, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dragon Lord’s mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen.’ Oh really," Mr. Hofferson said in exasperation, handing the paper to Askeladden. "Nobody was hurt. What was I _supposed_ to say? Rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods…well, there certainly _will_ be rumors now that she’s printed that."

He heaved a deep sigh. "Ingrid, I’m going to have to go into the office; this is going to take some smoothing over."

"I'll come with you, Father," Askeladden said importantly. "Kronos the Tenacious will need all hands on deck. And I can give him my cauldron report in person."

He bustled out of the kitchen. Mrs. Hofferson looked most upset.

"Bjartr, you’re supposed to be on holiday! This hasn’t got anything to do with your office; surely they can handle this without you?"

"I’ve got to go, Ingrid," Mr. Hofferson said. "I’ve made things worse. I’ll just change my clothes and I’ll be off…"

"Mrs. Hofferson," Hiccup said suddenly, unable to contain himself, "Blood-Spatter hasn’t arrived with a letter for me, has he?"

"Blood-Spatter, dear?" Mrs. Hofferson said distractedly. "No…no, there hasn’t been any post at all."

Astrid and Ragnar looked curiously at Hiccup. With a meaningful look at them and Raghilda he said, "All right if I go and dump my stuff in your room, Astrid?"

"Yeah…think I will too," Astrid said at once. "Raghilda?"

Raghilda nodded, standing up just a little too fast to be considered casual. Luckily, Mrs. Hofferson didn't notice.

"I'll come too," Ragnar said quickly, and the four of them marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"What’s wrong, Hiccup?" Astrid asked, the moment they had closed the door of the attic room behind them.

"There’s something I haven’t told you," Hiccup said. "On Saturday morning, I…I woke up with my scar hurting again."

Astrid and Ragnar's reactions were almost exactly as Hiccup had imagined them back in his bedroom on Privet Drive. Ragnar gasped and started making suggestions at once, mentioning a number of reference books, and everybody from Alvis the Noble to Bergljot the Helpful, Berk’s resident healer. Astrid, meanwhile, simply stared at him, the color draining rapidly from her face.

"But—the last time that your scar hurt, it was because—because—" She gulped for air. "Hiccup—he couldn't have _been_ there…could he?"

"I’m sure he wasn’t on Privet Drive," Hiccup assured her. "But I was dreaming about him…him and Savage. I can’t remember all of it now, but they were plotting to kill…someone."

He had teetered for a moment on the verge of saying "me," but couldn’t bring himself to worry her any more than he already had.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Raghilda asked. "I was right across the hall, you could have woken me up and told me what you saw."

"I didn't want you guys to worry," Hiccup said, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. "It’s weird, isn’t it?…My scar hurts, and three days later the Dragon Marks are on the march, and Drago’s sign’s up in the sky again."

He looked back at Raghilda. "Do you think this could have anything to do with your prophecy?"

Now it was Raghilda who paled, though with how little color her face held it was hardly noticeable. Only a few months before, as Hiccup had been leaving his final exam in Soothsaying, Raghilda had gone rigid, her face twisting in pain before going completely slack, and she had begun to speak, in a harsh, booming voice that was nothing like her own. She had collapsed immediately after speaking the prophecy, and had woke up in a panic, screaming "No!", and then bursting into tears.

Hiccup couldn't remember what she had said, but he had never been able to forget the words of Raghilda’s mentor, Gothi the Elder:

_"I have a feeling that you, my boy, will face a trial that could start a chain of unfortunate events…"_

"I'm not sure," Raghilda said slowly. "But if Savage was there…" She laid her hands on her marking and closed her eyes. "The servant shall at last break free…and set out to rejoin his master…stronger and more terrible than ever before…" She shuddered and opened her eyes again, visibly troubled. "Yes, I think it might."

There was a silence, in which Astrid fidgeted absentmindedly with a hole in her Holyhead Harpies bedspread, carefully avoiding Hiccup's eye.

"Why were you asking if Blood-Spatter had come, Hiccup?" Ragnar asked. "Are you expecting a letter?"

"I told Alvin about my scar," Hiccup said, shrugging. "I'm waiting for his answer."

"Good thinking," Astrid said, her expression clearing slightly. "He ought to know what to do."

"I hoped he'd be able to write back quickly," Hiccup said.

"Well, you have to remember that we don't know where he is," Ragnar said reasonably. "He could be Africa for all we know. Even the fastest dragon couldn't pull that off in a few days."

"Yeah, I know," Hiccup said, but there was a leaden feeling in his stomach as he looked out of the window at the dragon-free sky.

"Come and do some spar practice with me, Hiccup," Astrid said, clearly sensing how he felt. "Come on—its what I do when I need to take my mind off things…"

"Astrid," Ragnar said, in an I-don't-think-you're-helping sort of voice, "I don't think spar practice is what Hiccup really needs right now—"

"Maybe, but it's worth a try," Hiccup said. He turned to Astrid. "Meet you outside in five minutes?"

Astrid grinned and nodded.

"Never mind then," Ragnar deadpanned.

* * *

Neither Mr. Hofferson nor Askeladden was at home much over the following week. Both left the house each morning before the rest of the family got up, and returned well after dinner every night.

"It’s been an absolute uproar," Askeladden told them importantly the Sunday evening before they were due to return to Berk. "I’ve been putting out fires all week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don’t open a Howler straight away, it explodes. Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill reduced to cinders."

"Why are they all sending Howlers?" Egill asked, mending his copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of the living room fire.

"Complaining about security at the World Cup," Askeladden said. "They want compensation for their ruined property. Mundungus the Slimy’s put in a claim for a twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi, but I’ve got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping under a cloak propped on sticks."

Mrs. Hofferson glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Hiccup liked this clock. It was completely useless if you actually wanted to know the time, but otherwise it was very informative. It had nine golden hands, and each of them was engraved with one of the Hofferson family’s names. There were no numerals around the face, but descriptions of where each family member might be. "Home," "school," and "work" were there, but there was also "traveling," "lost," "hospital," "prison," and, in the position where the number twelve would be on a normal clock, "mortal peril."

Eight of the hands were currently pointing to the "home" position, but Mr. Hofferson’s, which was the longest, was still pointing to "work." Mrs. Hofferson sighed.

"Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on weekends since the days of the Dragon Lord," she said. "They’re working him far too hard. His dinner’s going to be ruined if he doesn’t come home soon."

"Well, Father feels he’s got to make up for his mistake at the match, doesn’t he?" Askeladden said. "If truth be told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first—"

"Don’t you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!" Mrs. Hofferson said, flaring up at once.

"If Dad hadn’t said anything, old Skeeter would just have said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry had commented," Hakon said, looking up from the game of Viking chess he and Astrid were playing. "Skeeter the Scandalous never makes anyone look good if she can help it. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts’ Charm Breakers once, and called me ‘a long-haired pillock’?"

"Well, it _is_ a bit long, dear," Mrs. Hofferson said gently. "If you’d just let me—"

" _No_ , Mum."

Rain lashed against the living room window. Ragnar was immersed in _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_ , copies of which Mrs. Hofferson had bought for him, Hiccup, and the girls in Diagon Alley. Einar was darning a fireproof balaclava. Hiccup and Raghilda were both sketching; Hiccup was doing a picture of Toothless, and Raghilda appeared to be testing out dress designs (why she was doing this, Hiccup didn't know—with it being Raghilda, he wasn't sure he wanted to). Double and Trouble were sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment.

"What are you two up to?" Mrs. Hofferson said sharply, her eyes on the twins.

"Homework," Double said vaguely.

"Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday," Mrs. Hofferson said.

"Yeah, we’ve left it a bit late," Trouble said.

"You’re not by any chance writing out a new order form, are you?" Mrs. Hofferson said shrewdly. "You wouldn’t be thinking of restarting Hoffersons’ Horrendous Viking Novelties, by any chance?"

"Now, Mum," Double said, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. "If the Berk Express crashed tomorrow, and Trouble and I died, how would you feel to know that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded accusation?"

Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Hofferson.

"Oh! Your father’s coming!" she said suddenly, looking up at the clock again.

Mr. Hofferson’s hand had suddenly spun from "work" to "traveling"; a second later it had shuddered to a halt on "home" with the others, and they heard him calling from the kitchen.

"Coming, dear!" Mrs. Hofferson called, hurrying out of the room.

A few moments later, Mr. Hofferson came into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looked completely exhausted.

"Well, the fat’s really in the fire now," he told Mrs. Hofferson as he sat down in an armchair near the hearth and toyed unenthusiastically with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. "Skeeter the Scandalous has been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups to report. And now she’s found out about poor old Bjorg the Absent-minded going missing, so that’ll be the headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Tori he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago."

"Kronos the Tenacious has been saying it for weeks and weeks," Askeladden said swiftly.

"Kronos is very lucky Skeeter hasn’t found out about Winky," Mr. Hofferson said irritably. "There’d be a week’s worth of headlines in his house-elf being caught holding the crystal eye that conjured the mark."

"I thought we were all agreed that that elf, while irresponsible, did not conjure the mark?" Askeladden said hotly.

"If you ask me, Kronos is very lucky no one at the Daily Prophet knows how horrid he is to elves!" Ragnar said angrily.

"Now look here, Ragnar!" Askeladden exclaimed. "A high-ranking Ministry official like Kronos the Tenacious deserves unswerving obedience from his servants—"

"His slave, you mean!"Ragnar said, his voice rising passionately, "because he didn’t _pay_ Winky, did he?"

"I think you’d all better go upstairs and check that you’ve packed properly!" Mrs. Hofferson said, breaking up the argument before it could get any worse. "Come on now, all of you…"

Hiccup closed his sketchbook, and went back upstairs with the girls. The rain sounded even louder at the top of the house, accompanied by loud whistlings and moans from the wind, not to mention sporadic howls from the ghoul who lived in the attic. Sneaky began gabbering and rushing around the room once they entered. The sight of the half-packed trunks seemed to have sent him into a frenzy of excitement.

"Settle down, Sneaky," Astrid said.

Hiccup chuckled, before turning to his trunk. Sharpshot and Blood-Spatter’s cage sat next to it, still empty. Sharpshot was downstairs with all of the other Terrible Terrors, but Blood-Spatter was still gone.

"It’s been over a week," Hiccup said, looking at the empty cage. "You don’t think Alvin has been caught, do you?"

"It would have shown up in the Daily Prophet," Raghilda said. "I bet Fudge would _love_ to catch my father right now, to get everyone to stop talking about what happened at the World Cup."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right…"

"Look, here’s the stuff Mum got for you in Diagon Alley," Astrid said, heaving a pile of parcels onto Hiccup's camp bed. She dropped a bag of money next to it. "And she’s got some gold out of your vault for you…And I'm not sure, but she probably washed your socks, too. They might be in with mine, just let me check…"

Hiccup started unwrapping the shopping. Apart from _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_ , by Goshawk the Guiding, he had a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for his potion-making kit—he had been running low on spine of lionfish and essence of belladonna. He was just about to (somewhat jokingly) ask Astrid if she had found his socks when he heard her go, " _Huh_?"

Hiccup turned around. Astrid was holding an old dress out in front of her—one that had clearly seen better days. It was yellow in color, a very faded yellow at that, and there were at least three stains on it, one on the neckline and two on the skirt. The long sleeves were threadbare at the elbows, and the ruffles were badly frayed.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hofferson entered, carrying an armful of freshly laundered clothes.

"There you are," she said, sorting them into three separate piles. "Now, mind you pack them properly so they don't crease."

"Mum, what is this?" Astrid asked, holding the dress out to her mother.

"Oh, it's for you, dear," Mrs. Hofferson said. "Your school list said students would need formal wear this year…suits for boys, dresses for girls."

"You've got to be kidding," Astrid said in disbelief. "I'm not wearing this, no way."

"Don't be silly, Astrid, everyone year four and up needs to have formal wear. I bought suits for the boys…show her, Hiccup…"

In some trepidation, Hiccup opened the last parcel on his camp bed. It wasn't as bad as he expected, however; his suit consisted of a very nice scarlet tunic, a black vest with wooden buttons, and golden brown trousers.

"The vest is missing the top button," Mrs. Hofferson said kindly. "But other than that, it's as good as new."

She turned to Raghilda. "And you're sure you want to make a dress for yourself?"

Raghilda nodded. "I've done it before, I can do it again. Besides, I'm a bit too small for dresses that aren't custom-made."

Well, that explained why she had been designing dresses.

"Where did you get this dress?" Astrid asked, poking under one of the sleeves to find a hole big enough for her finger.

"Ah…well…I didn't have a lot of money left, so…"

"It's one of yours," Astrid finished. She shoved the dress at her mother. "I'm not wearing it, Mum."

"Astrid, don't be so stubborn," Mrs. Hofferson chastised.

"Mum, it's falling apart!"

"Then you'll have to fix it then, won't you?" Mrs. Hofferson put her hands on her hips. "I taught you how to sew, didn't I?"

"But—"

"No buts, Astrid! You will take that dress to Berk and that is final!"

She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Astrid cursed vividly, tossing the dress onto the floor. "Why is almost everything I own a damn hand-me-down?!"

* * *

**Because I'm the author of this series, and I'm a bitch like that. Especially to my favorite characters.**

**Highlight of chapter: Astrid's hand-me-down dress, and Hiccup's second-hand but practically new suit. Seriously, all that was wrong with Hiccup's suit is that it lost its nice golden buttons, and Mrs. Hofferson just replaced them with wooden ones. Heck, it probably looks better with the wooden buttons.**

**Don't worry, I'm not going to force Astrid to actually wear the hand-me-down dress. I've got something a lot better-looking in mind for her... ;)**


	11. Aboard the Berk Express

 

**I'M ALIVE!**

**Sorry about the lack of update last week guys; google docs was giving me grief, and I eventually rage quit and went to bed. And then every day afterward just pushed the update back.**

**And because I don't actively hate my editor, the double-update-so-I-can-catch-up will be next week rather than this one. And then I will use my Spring Break to write a ton of chapters so that this never happens again.**

**Here's what you guys should've gotten last Monday.**

* * *

_Chapter Eleven: Aboard the Berk Express_

* * *

There was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when Raghilda shook Hiccup awake the next morning.

"Time to get up, Hiccup," she said quietly. "I imagine you'd like to eat before we leave."

Hiccup sat up, yawning loudly. "That would be nice, yeah."

Heavy rain was still splattering against the window as he got dressed, while Raghilda waited on the other side of the door.

"I suggest you put on your cape!" she called. "It's going to be cold!"

It was a hassle, going through his stuff to find where he'd put his cape, but Hiccup eventually found it underneath his new suit. He pinned it around his shoulders and followed Raghilda downstairs.

They had just reached the first-floor landing when Astrid appeared at the foot of the stairs, hastily braiding her hair.

"Dad!" she yelled up the staircase. "Dad! You've got a message from the Ministry! It's urgent!"

Hiccup and Raghilda flattened themselves against the wall as Mr. Hofferson came clattering past with his tunic on backwards and hurtled out of sight. When they followed Astrid into the kitchen, they saw Mrs. Hofferson rummaging anxiously in the drawers—"I know I've got a quill in here  _ somewhere _ !"—and Mr. Hofferson bending over the fire, talking to—

Hiccup shut his eyes hard and opened them again to make sure they were working properly.

Asmund the Adamant’s head was sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg. It was talking very fast, seemingly unaware of the sparks flying around it and the flames licking at its ears.

"…Muggle neighbors heard banging and shouting, so they went and called those what-d’you-call-'ems—Please men. Bjartr, you've got to get over here—"

"Here!" Mrs. Hofferson said breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a nearly featherless quill into Mr. Hofferson’s hands.

"—It's a real stroke of luck I heard about it," Asmund’s head went on. "Came into the office early to send a couple of Terrible Terrors, and found the Improper Use of Magic lot all setting off—If Skeeter the Scandalous gets a hold of this one, Bjartr—"

"What does Torhild the Vigilant say happened?" Mr. Hofferson asked, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes.

Asmund’s head rolled its eyes. "Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house, but was ambushed by his dustbins."

Hiccup and Raghilda looked at each other; Hiccup mouthed "Dustbins?", and Raghilda shrugged, clearly as confused as he was.

"And just what did the dustbins do?" Mr. Hofferson asked, scribbling frantically.

"Roared like a wounded dragon and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell," Asmund said. "Apparently one of them was still rocketing about when the please men showed up—"

Astrid started snickering, and Mr. Hofferson groaned.

"And what about the intruder?"

"Bjartr, you know Torhild," Asmund’s head said, rolling its eyes again. "Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? Without waking up his dragon? More likely there's a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Torhild, he's had it—think of his record—we've got to get him off on a minor charge, something in your department—what are exploding dustbins worth?"

"Might be a caution," Mr. Hofferson said, still writing very fast, his brow furrowed. "Torhild didn't use magic? He didn't actually attack anyone?"

"I'll bet he leapt out of bed and aimed attacks at everything in sight," Asmund said, "but they'll have a job proving it, there aren't any casualties."

"All right, I'm off," Mr. Hofferson said, and he stuffed the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket and dashed out of the kitchen again.

Asmund’s head looked around at Mrs. Hofferson.

"Sorry about this, Ingrid," it said, more calmly, "bothering you so early and everything…but Bjartr’s the only one who can get Torhild off, and Torhild’s supposed to be starting his new job  _ today _ . Why he had to choose last night…"

"Never mind, Asmund," Mrs. Hofferson said. "Sure you won't have a bit of toast or anything before you go?"

"Oh go on, then," Asmund said.

Mrs. Hofferson took a piece of buttered toast from a stack on the kitchen table, put it into the fire tongs, and transferred it into Asmund’s mouth.

"Fanks," he said in a muffled voice, and then, with a small pop, vanished.

Hiccup could hear Mr. Hofferson calling hurried goodbyes to Hakon, Einar, Askeladden, Double, Trouble, Ragnar, and Egill. Within five minutes, he was back in the kitchen, his tunic on the right way now, dragging a comb through his hair.

"I'd better hurry—have a good term, you three," Mr. Hofferson said to Hiccup, Astrid, and Raghilda, fastening his dusty fur cape around his shoulders. He leaned down to press a kiss to Mrs. Hofferson’s cheek. "Ingrid, are you going to be alright taking the kids to King’s Cross on your own?"

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hofferson said, kissing his cheek in turn. "You just look after Torhild, we'll be fine."

As Mr. Hofferson Teleported, Hakon and Einar walked into the kitchen.

"Did someone say Torhild?" Hakon asked. "What's he been up to now?"

"He says someone tried to break into his house last night," Mrs. Hofferson said.

"Torhild?" Trouble said, as he and Double came into the kitchen. "Isn't he that nutter—"

"Your father thinks very highly of Torhild," Mrs. Hofferson said sternly.

"Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn't he?" Double said quietly as Mrs. Hofferson left the room. "Birds of a feather…"

"Torhild was a great Viking in his time," Hakon said. "They didn't title him "the Vigilant" for nothing."

"And he's an old friend of Alvis’, isn't he?" Einar said.

"Alvis isn't what you'd call normal, though, is he?" Trouble said. "I mean, I know he's a genius and everything…"

"Who  _ is  _ Torhild?" Hiccup asked.

"He's retired, used to work at the Ministry," Einar said. "I met him once when Dad took me into work with him. He was a Shadow Warden—one of the best…someone who catches dark Vikings," he added, seeing Hiccup's blank look. "Half of the cells in Azkaban are full because of him. He made himself loads of enemies, though…the families of people he caught, mainl…and I heard he's been getting really paranoid in his old age. Doesn't really trust anyone anymore. Sees dark Vikings everywhere."

Hakon and Einar decided to come and see everyone off at King’s Cross station, but Askeladden, apologizing most profusely, said that he really needed to get to work.

"I simply can't justify taking more time off at the moment," he told them. "Kronos the Tenacious is really starting to rely on me."

"Yeah, you know what, Askeladden?" Trouble said seriously. "I reckon he’ll start using your name soon."

Mrs. Hofferson had braved the telephone in the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take them into London.

"Bjartr tried to borrow Ministry cars for us," Mrs. Hofferson whispered to Hiccup as they stood in the rain-washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving six heavy Berk trunks into their cars. "But there weren't any to spare…Oh dear, they don't look happy, do they?"

Hiccup didn't like to tell Mrs. Hofferson that Muggle taxi drivers rarely transported over excited Terrible Terrors, and Sneaky was making an ear splitting racket. Nor did it help that a number of Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks went off unexpectedly when Double’s trunk sprang open, causing the driver carrying it to yell with fright and alarm.

The journey was uncomfortable, owing to the fact that they were jammed in the back of the taxis with their trunks. They were all very relieved to get out at King’s Cross, even though the rain was coming down harder than ever, and they got soaked carrying their trunks across the busy road and into the station.

Hiccup was used to getting onto platform nine and three-quarters by now. It was a simple matter of walking straight through the apparently solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky part was doing this in an unobtrusive way, so as to avoid attracting Muggle attention. They did it in groups today, Hiccup and Ragnar going first; they leaned casually against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, and slid sideways through it…and as they did so, platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front of them.

The Berk Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, was already there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Berk students and parents on the platform appeared like dark ghosts.

Astrid and Raghilda appeared right behind them; Sneaky became noisier than ever in response to the growls of many Terrible Terrors through the mist.

Rolling her eyes, Astrid rapped her knuckles against the cage. "Calm down, Sneaky."

They set off to find seats, and were soon stowing their luggage in a compartment halfway along the train. They then hopped back down onto the platform to say goodbye to Mrs. Hofferson, Hakon, and Einar.

"I might be seeing you all sooner than you think," Einar said, grinning, as he hugged Astrid good-bye.

"Why?" Double said keenly.

"You'll see," Einar said. "Just don’t tell Askeladden I mentioned it…it's ‘classified information, until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,’ after all."

"Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Berk this year," Hakon said, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully at the train.

"Why?" Trouble said impatiently.

"You’re going to have an interesting year," Hakon said vaguely, his eyes twinkling. "I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it…"

"A bit of  _ what _ ?" Astrid asked.

But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs. Hofferson chivvied them toward the train doors.

"Thank you for letting us stay with you, Mrs. Hofferson," Raghilda said as they climbed on board, closed the door, and leaned out of the window to talk to her.

"Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Hofferson," Hiccup said.

"Oh it was my pleasure, dears," Mrs. Hofferson said, beaming. "I'd invite you for Snoggletog, but…well, I expect you're all going to want to stay at Berk this year, what with…one thing and another."

"Mum!" Astrid said irritably. "What d’you three know that we don't?"

"You'll find out this evening, I expect," Mrs. Hofferson said, smiling. "It's going to be very exciting — mind you, I'm very glad they've changed the rules —"

"What rules?" Hiccup, Ragnar, Astrid, Double, and Trouble said together.

"I'm sure Headmaster Alvis will tell you…Now, behave, won't you? Won't you, Double? And you, Trouble?"

The pistons hissed loudly and the train began to move.

"Tell us what’s happening at Berk!" Double bellowed out of the window as Mrs. Hofferson, Hakon, and Einar sped away from them. "What rules are they changing?"

But Mrs. Hofferson merely smiled and waved. Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Hakon, and Einar had Teleported.

Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls went back to their compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows made it very difficult to see out of them.

"Tori wanted to tell us what’s happening at Berk," Astrid grumbled, sitting down next to Hiccup. "At the World Cup, remember? But my own bloody mother won't say. Wonder what—"

"Shh!" Ragnar whispered suddenly, pressing his finger to his lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs. Hiccup, Astrid, and Raghilda listened, and heard an all-too-familiar voice drifting in through the open door.

"…Dad wanted to send me to Mogadon, you know. He and the Headmaster are old friends. You know how much Dad hates Alvis—and I can't blame him, the man’s such a Mudblood-lover—and Mogadon doesn't admit that sort of  _ vermin  _ into their school. But Mum didn't like the idea of me going to school so far away. They argued about it for  _ weeks _ . I wish she'd have let me go—Dad says Mogadon students actually get to  _ learn _ the Dark Arts; Berk just does the boring  _ safe _ attacks…"

Raghilda got up, tiptoed to the compartment door, and slid it shut, blocking out Snotlout's voice.

"So he thinks Mogadon would have suited him, does he?" Astrid said angrily. "I wish he _had_ gone, then we wouldn't have to put up with him."

"Mogadon’s another Viking school?" Hiccup said.

"Yes," Ragnar said, a look of disgust overcoming his usually kind face. "The Mogadon Institute of Combat Skills and Dragon Training. It's got a horrible reputation—According to An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, they put a lot of emphasis on the more… _ sadistic _ approaches to combat."

"Torture, Ragnar, you mean torture," Raghilda said. "They also supposedly beat untamed dragons into submission, though admittedly that's just a rumor."

Ragnar grunted. "It certainly wouldn't surprise me."

"Where is it?" Hiccup asked. He wanted to be sure which country he should never move to.

"No one knows," Raghilda said. "There's a lot of rivalry between all the magic schools, of course, there's always been rivalry. But Mogadon and the Bog Burglars took it one step further; they concealed their whereabouts, so that nobody could steal their secrets."

"Come off it, Raggy," Astrid said. "Mogadon’s got to be about the same size as Berk—how are you going to hide a great big Fort?"

"But Berk  _ is  _ hidden," Ragnar said, in surprise. "Everyone knows that…well, everyone who's read A History of Dragons, anyway."

"Just you and Raghilda, then," Astrid said. "So go on then—how do you manage to hide a place like Berk?"

"It’s bewitched," Ragnar explained. "If a Muggle looks at it, all they see is a moldering old ruin with a sign over the entrance saying danger, do not enter, unsafe."

"So Mogadon would just look like a ruin to an outsider too?"

"Maybe," Ragnar said, shrugging, "or it might have Muggle-repelling charms on it, like the World Cup arena."

"Or they set their dragons on them," Raghilda said. Hiccup, Astrid, and Ragnar all stared at her, stunned, and she rolled her eyes. "What? I didn't make that up, they used to do that when the school first opened, and there are rumors that they kept on doing it to this day."

"Those rumors I will doubt, if only because the death toll would give them away," Ragnar said. "And they’ll have probably made their fort Unplottable—"

"Come again?"

"Well, you can enchant a building so it's impossible to plot on a map, can't you?"

"Er…if you say so, Rag," Hiccup said.

"But I think Mogadon must be somewhere in the far north," Ragnar said thoughtfully. "Somewhere very cold, because they specify needing extra layers of fur on all their clothes."

"Ah, think of the possibilities," Astrid said, a violent sort of glee in her voice. "It would've been so easy to just push Snotlout off a glacier and make it look like an accident…Shame his mother likes him…"

The rain became heavier and heavier as the train moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the corridor, and Hiccup bought a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for them to share.

Several of their friends looked in on them as the afternoon progressed, including Wartihog Brandir, Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston, and Fishlegs Ingerman, an extremely large, extremely timid boy who had been brought up by his very formidable grandmother. Wartihog was still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its magic seemed to be wearing off now; it was still squeaking "Nanna—Kettil—Ove!" but in a very feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour or so, Raghilda, growing tired of the endless talk of Dragon Racing, buried herself once more in the act of designing a dress.

Fishlegs listened jealousy to the others’ conversation as they relived the Cup match.

"Gran didn’t want to go," he said miserably. "Wouldn’t buy tickets. It sounded amazing though."

"It was," Astrid said, unable to help grinning. "We got to see all the players up close, because we were in the Top Box—"

"And I  _ shudder  _ to think what your family had to sell to get those seats, darling."

Snotlout Jorgenson had appeared in the doorway. Behind him stood Hjartán and Falskur, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appeared to have grown at least a foot during the summer. Evidently they had overheard the conversation through the compartment door, which Ruffnut and Tuffnut had left ajar.

"Don't remember asking you to join us, Snotlout," Hiccup said coolly.

Snotlout sneered at him. "Don't remember needing to  _ ask _ , useless."

"Fuck off, Snotlout, we don't want you here," Astrid said, scowling.

As usual, Snotlout ignored what she had said. "Planning on entering, darling? I'd hate to have to go against you—winning wouldn't be as fun."

"What are you talking about?" Astrid snapped.

" _ Are you going to enter _ ?" Snotlout repeated. "I suppose  _ you _ will, useless? You never miss an opportunity to show off, do you?"

"Either explain what you're on about or go away, Snotlout," Ragnar said testily.

A gleeful smile spread across Snotlout's face.

"You don't  _ know _ ?" he asked Astrid, sounding delighted. "You've got a father and a brother woking in the Ministry, and they didn't  _ tell you _ ? Gods, darling, that's embarrassing. I mean,  _ my  _ dad told me about it ages ago…heard it from the Chief himself. But that's not a surprise—my dad has always associated with the top people in the Ministry…Your father must be too insignificant to know about it. They wouldn't discuss something so important with someone like  _ him _ around."

Astrid stood up, her hands in fists. "Alright, that's it—!"

Hiccup and Ragnar grabbed her by her arms and held her back, even though Hiccup would really rather Astrid got to beat some sense into the git.

"For your own sake, Snotlout," Raghilda said, still not looking up from the design she was working on, "I suggest that you run."

For as stupid as he was, Snotlout did at least take this advice; he blew Astrid a kiss (she almost got loose after that, but Hiccup held tight) and left. Hjartán and Falskur followed after, muttering vague threats under their breath.

Once certain that Astrid wouldn't try to hunt Snotlout down, Hiccup and Ragnar let her go. She plopped back into her seat, looking more irritable than ever.

"‘Too insignificant’. Dad could’ve got a promotion any time…he just likes it where he is…"

"I know he does," Raghilda said softly, reaching over to place her hand on top of Astrid's. "Astrid, you can't let him get to you like that. Remember what we said? Last year, I mean?"

Astrid sighed. "He's not worth my anger."

Raghilda nodded her approval, smiled slightly, and pressed a kiss to Astrid's cheek. "Good."

The rest of the journey was relatively quiet—no one really had a lot to say anymore. Eventually, the Berk Express began to slow down, and finally drew to a halt in the pitch-blackness of Berksmeade Station.

Raghilda had been right—it was indeed cold. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads.

"Hello, Gobber!" Hiccup yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform.

"All righ’, Hiccup?" Gobber bellowed back, waving cheerfully with his good arm. "I'll see yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!"

First years traditionally reached the Fort by sailing across the lake with Gobber.

"I don't envy the first years," Raghilda said, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for them outside the station. Hiccup and Ragnar helped the girls climb into one of them, and in turn the girls reached down to help pull them up. When they were all safely inside, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the track toward the Fort.

* * *

**Yay! Back to Berk, where surely nothing can go wrong!**

**(If I say it enough times, maybe it will finally come true)**

**Highlight of chapter: Snotlout being a dick as usual. The Mogadon stuff was pretty fun too, and I of course liked the little scene between Astrid and Raghilda, but...Well, Snotlout was technically a part of those things too, so it counts.**

**Again guys, I'm really sorry this took so long. It won't happen again, I promise.**

**See you next Monday, with a double update to catch up to where I'm supposed to be. Bye!**


	12. Thawfest

**I'm alive!**

**...I've been sick at least once a week for three months, but I'm not dead yet, so I'll count that as a win!**

**It's been a while since I've updated this story; even ignoring illness, the last several months have been...a lot.**

**You may have noticed that the title of the book has been changed from "the Goblet of Fire". I did this because someone I know pointed out that it's weird that the book was titled after the goblet of fire, when it isn't really in a lot of the book. Thus, I decided to switch the title to "The Thawfest Tournament", which is a lot more indicative of what's happening in the story.**

**I also called it "Thawfest" instead of "Triviking", because triviking didn't have a very good ring to it, and as Thawfest already existed in HTTYD canon (er, if you count the cartoons as canon), I decided that would make a good replacement.**

**I still can't figure out how to rewrite the Sorting song, so I'm just gonna cheat and put in the one from the first book.**

**Onwards!**

* * *

_Chapter Twelve: Thawfest_

* * *

Through the gates, flanked with statues of the four school dragons, and up the sweeping drive the carriages trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Hiccup could see the Fort coming nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who had occupied the carriages in front were already hurrying up the stone steps into the Fort. Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls jumped down from their carriage and dashed up the steps too, looking up only when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit Entrance Hall, with its grand marble staircase.

"At this rate," Ragnar said, shaking his head and sending droplets of water everywhere, "the lake is going to overflow before the First Years even make it across—ARRGH!"

A large, crimson, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto Ragnar's head and exploded. Drenched and sputtering, Ragnar staggered sideways, colliding with Hiccup just as a second water bomb dropped—narrowly missing Astrid, it burst at Hiccup's feet, send a wave of ice-cold water over his boots and into his socks. People all around them shrieked and ducked, pushing each other out of the way in their desperation to avoid getting hit. Hiccup looked up and saw, floating twenty feet above them, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man with wickedly dark eyes and an orange helmet on his head, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he took aim again.

"PEEVES!" an angry voice bellowed. "Peeves, come down here at ONCE!"

Phlegma the Fierce, Deputy Headmistress and head of Gryffindor house, as well as Hiccup's godmother, had come stomping out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Ragnar around the neck to stop herself from falling.

"Oh, Thor—Sorry about that—"

"No problem," Ragnar croaked, massaging his throat gingerly.

"Peeves, get down here NOW!" Phlegma barked, straightening her helmet and glaring up at the troublesome ghost.

"Not doing nothing!" Peeves cackled, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the safety of the Great Hall. "Already wet, aren't they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!" And he aimed another bomb at a group of second-years who had just arrived.

"I'll call the Headmaster!" Phlegma shouted. "I'm warning you, Peeves—"

Peeves stuck out his tongue, tossed the rest of his water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the staircase, cackling insanely.

"Well, move along, then!" Phlegma said sharply to the bedraggled crowd. "Into the Great Hall, come on!"

Holding on to each other for support, Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls slipped and slid across the Entrance Hall and through the double doors on the right, Ragnar muttering furiously under his breath as he pushed his sopping hair off of his face.

The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four House tables, all with a statue of the House's founder at the foot, were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils, the statues of Hiccup's ancestors looming behind them. It was much warmer in here. Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Njorthr, the Gryffindor ghost.

"Good evening," he said, beaming at them.

"Says who?" Astrid said, taking off her boots and emptying them of water. "Hope they hurry up with the Sorting. I'm starving."

"You're always starving, Astrid," Raghilda said, twisting the water out of her braids.

"I don't remember asking for your opinion, Raggy…"

Hiccup chuckled. The Sorting of the new students into Houses took place at the start of every school year, but by an unlucky combination of circumstances, he hadn't been present at one since his own. He was quite looking forward to actually getting to see it.

Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice called down the table.

"Hiya, Hiccup!"

It was Gustav Larson, Egill's best friend, to whom Hiccup was something of a hero.

"Hi, Gustav," Hiccup said warily.

"Hiccup, guess what? Guess what? My sister's starting! My sister Gunilla!"

"Er—good for her," Hiccup said, smiling awkwardly.

"She's really excited!" Gustav said, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. "I just hope she's in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Hiccup?"

"Er—yeah, all right," Hiccup said. He turned back to Ragnar, the girls, and Nearly Headless Njorthr. "Brothers and sisters usually go in the same Houses, don't they?" he said. He was judging by the Hoffersons, all seven of whom had been put into Gryffindor.

"Not necessarily," Astrid said. "Mum was a Gryffindor, but her older sister was a Ravenclaw."

Hiccup looked up at the staff table. There seemed to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Gobber, of course, was still fighting his way across the lake with the first years; Phlegma was presumably supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but there was another empty chair too, and Hiccup couldn't think who else was missing.

"Where's the new Combat Arts teacher?" Ragnar said, also looking up at the teachers.

They had never yet had a Combat Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. Hiccup's favorite by far had been Johann the Wanderer, who had resigned last year. He looked up and down the staff table. There was definitely no new face there.

"Maybe they couldn't get anyone," Astrid said, a hint of worry in her voice. "I mean, no one's lasted longer than a year for a while now…"

Hiccup scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little Alvar the Charmer, the Core Magic teacher, was sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Eydis the Hardworking, the Herbology teacher, whose helmet was askew over her flyaway gray hair. She was talking amicably with Sassa the Star-gazer, of the Astronomy department. On Sassa's other side was the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Asketill the Harsh—Hiccup's least favorite person at Berk. Hiccup's loathing of Asketill was matched only by Asketill’s hatred of him, Ragnar, and Raghilda; a hatred which had, if possible, intensified significantly last year, when they had helped Alvin escape right under Asketill's overlarge nose—Asketill and Alvin had been enemies since their own school days.

On Asketill's other side was an empty seat, which Hiccup guessed was Phlegma's. Next to it, and in the very center of the table, sat Alvis the Noble, the headmaster of Berk, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the torchlight, his helmet looking as though it had been freshly polished. The tips of Alvis's fingers were pressed together, and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling as though lost in thought. Hiccup glanced up at the ceiling too. It was enchanted to look like the sky outside, and he had never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashed across it.

"I hope the First Years get here soon," Astrid said.

Raghilda winced and turned in her seat, so that she was looking at the doors. "Let's see. Three…two… _one_."

The last word had barely left her mouth when the doors of the Great Hall opened, and silence fell. Phlegma the Fierce was leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Hiccup, Ragnar, and the girls were wet, it was nothing to how these first years looked. They appeared to have swum across the lake rather than sailed. All of them were shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed along the staff table and came to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school—all of them except the smallest of the lot, a girl with mousy hair, who was wrapped in an oversized cape. It was so big for her that it looked as though she were draped in a furry black circus tent. Her small face protruded from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited. When she had lined up with her terrified-looking peers, she caught Gustav's eye, gave a double thumbs-up, and mouthed, _I fell in the lake!_ She looked positively delighted about it.

Phlegma now placed a four-legged stool on the ground before the first years, and, on top of it, an old, dented helmet with intertwined horns. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else.

"The sorting helmet of Valhallarama!" Phlegma announced.

For a moment there was silence. Then the helmet twitched, its horns twisting until they formed a mouth, and it began to sing:

_Now you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A better helmet than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_your top hats sleek and tall,_

_for I'm Valhallarama's sorting helmet;_

_I can cap them all!_

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Helmet can't see,_

_so try me on and I'll tell you_

_where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_His daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_set her Gryffindor apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_for patient Hufflepuff was always true_

_and never afraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_if you've a ready mind,_

_where those of wit and learning_

_can always find their kind;_

_Or, perhaps, in Slytherin,_

_where you’ll make your 'real' friends,_

_those cunning folks will use any means_

_to achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (although I have none)_

_for I am a Thinking Cap!_

The Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Helmet finished.

"When I call your name, you'll come forward, and I will place the Sorting Helmet on your head," Phlegma told the first years, as she unrolled a large scroll of parchment. "When the Helmet announces your house, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.

"Ack Svenson!"

A boy stumbled forward, trembling from head to foot, and sat on the stool. Phlegma placed the helmet on his head, and after a moment, it cried out

"RAVENCLAW!"

Ack Svenson took off the helmet and all but ran to find a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was cheering for him.

"Hallvard Fellson!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

The table on the other side of the hall erupted with cheers; Hiccup could see Snotlout pounding his fist on the table as Hallvard joined the Slytherins. Looking at Hallvard's smiling face, Hiccup wondered if the boy knew about his house's rotten reputation.

"Randi Waterson!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Njal Lifdagar!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Gunilla Larson!"

Tiny Gunilla Larson scurried forward, nearly tripping over her oversized cape as she did so. When she'd made it to the stool, she sat upon the very edge of it, noticeably angling herself towards the Gryffindor table. Phlegma noticed this; Hiccup could see her lip curling ever so slightly as she placed the Sorting Helmet upon the girl's head.

There was a long pause—the helmet was clearly taking its time in making a decision—before finally—

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Beaming wildly, Gunilla shot to her feet; Phlegma only just managed to get the helmet off of her head before she raced over to Gryffindor table, which was cheering so loudly that Hiccup half-thought he was going to go deaf.

"I fell in!" Gunilla shrieked, positively giddy as her older brother gave her a hug. "I fell in, Gustav! Right into the lake! It was brilliant! And something picked me up and put me back in the boat!"

"That's awesome, Gunilla!" Gustav said, just as excited as she was. "I'll bet you that was one of the Scauldrons. Hey, maybe that'll be _your_ type of dragon!"

Gunilla let out an astonished gasp, as though that was the most incredible thing she had ever heard.

When the Gryffindors had finally calmed themselves down, the sorting continued. Hiccup watched the line very slowly dwindle, as boys and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces were Sorted.

"Oh, hurry up," Astrid said, her stomach grumbling angrily. Hiccup couldn't blame her; he was getting hungry too.

"Astrid, the Sorting is a lot more important than food," Ragnar said, as "Helga Gryttr!" became a Hufflepuff.

Astrid stuck her tongue out at him. "It's taking too long! I don't remember _our_ Sorting taking this much time."

"Well, there are more kids this year," Ragnar pointed out. "Ergo, it's taking more time to sort them all."

Ragnar was right; there were twenty-five kids in their year, and at least fifty in this one. Still, Hiccup hoped it wouldn't take much longer…

"I do hope this year's batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch," Nearly Headless Njorthr commented, applauding politely as "Sigrid Kynligr!" joined the Gryffindor table. "Wouldn't want to break our winning streak, after all."

Raghilda chuckled lightly, nudging Hiccup with her elbow. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Njorthr. As long as we have Hiccup around, I'd say victory is as good as ours."

Hiccup coughed, his face reddening in embarrassment. He knew Raghilda was only teasing, but as always, there was an unfortunate truth to her words: Gryffindor had won the Inter-House Championship for the last three years, and he had been one of the contributing factors in those wins, even if the first two had been unintentional.

As much as he wanted Gryffindor to win again, he hoped no one would expect _him_ to do the heavy lifting for the rest of the House—and that they wouldn't blame him if they lost.

"Magnus Slugworth!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Brenna Gyald!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

And finally, with "Frithjof Whittleson!" ("HUFFLEPUFF!"), the Sorting came to an end. Phlegma picked up the Sorting Helmet and the stool and carried them away.

Headmaster Alvis got to his feet. He smiled as he looked around at the students, his arms open wide in a warm welcome.

"Welcome!" he said, his deep voice echoing around the Great Hall. "To another year at the Berk Dragon Academy for Vikings and Valkyries!"

The students all cheered.

"I have only one thing to say now," Alvis said, his eyes twinkling. He lifted his prosthetic arm into the air, and brought it down in a slashing motion.

At that moment, the serving plates filled with food. The first years _ooh_ ed and _ahh_ ed, while the older students merely smiled.

"Enjoy," Alvis finished with a smile, before sitting down once more.

Nearly Headless Njorthr watched mournfully as the Gryffindors loaded their own plates.

"You're lucky there's a feast at all, you know," he said. "There was a bit of trouble in the kitchens earlier."

"Why? What happened?" Hiccup asked.

"Peeves, of course," Nearly Headless Njorthr said, shaking his head, making it wobble dangerously. "It was the usual argument—he wanted to attend the feast, you see. Well, obviously we can't have _that_ , you've all seen how Peeves behaves—he can't see a plate of food without throwing it. But he was so insistent, we had to have a Ghost Council about it. Nearly swayed the Fat Friar to his side—but thankfully the Bloody Viking put his foot down."

The Bloody Viking was the Slytherin ghost; a gaunt, perpetually angry spectre covered in silver bloodstains. He was one of the two people who could really control Peeves, the other being Headmaster Alvis.

"Bet Peeves didn't like that," Astrid said darkly.

"I'd be surprised if he did," Raghilda said. "How bad was the damage?"

"Oh, no worse than usual," Nearly Headless Njorthr said with a shrug. "Pots and pans everywhere, pitchers overflowing with ice, place practically _swimming_ in soup—it was absolute chaos. Scared the poor House Elves out of their wits—"

_Clang._

Ragnar had knocked over his golden goblet; Raghilda grabbed it before the contents could spill onto the tablecloth. Ragnar didn't appear to have noticed what he had done.

"House elves?" he gasped, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Njorthr. "There are house elves _here_? At Berk?"

"Certainly," Nearly Headless Njorthr said, clearly caught off guard by the reaction. "The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."

"I've never seen one!" Ragnar said.

"Of course you haven't, lad," Nearly Headless Njorthr said. "They hardly ever leave the kitchen during the day. They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning, see to the fires and pitchers and such…You're not really supposed to see them; the mark of a good house elf is that you don't know that it's there."

Ragnar stared at him, utterly horrified.

"But they get _paid_ , right?" he said. "They get _holidays_ , don't they? And—and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?"

Nearly Headless Njorthr laughed so hard that his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it to his neck.

"Sick leave and pensions?" he said, as he pushed his head back onto his shoulders. "House-elves don't _want_ sick leave and pensions! They never have! It goes against their very nature!"

He floated away, still chuckling.

"Poorly phrased, but he's not wrong," Raghilda said. "House elves _do_ tend to find sick leave and pensions a bit offensive—they take it as us feeling they're too weak to work through illness and old age. Elven pride, you know, it's important to them…er, Ragnar, what are you doing?"

Ragnar was looking at his plate, the food on it still largely untouched. All of a sudden, he shoved it away, a furious look on his face.

"Slave labor," he said, breathing hard through his nose. "That's what made this dinner. _Slave labor_."

And he refused to eat another bite.

The rain was still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings.

"Come on, Ragnar," Astrid said, holding a bit of treacle tart out to him. "You've gotta be pretty hungry by now—"

The look Ragnar gave her was so reminiscent of Phlegma that Astrid cut herself off and instead handed the treacle tart to Hiccup, who was careful to avoid Ragnar's gaze as he ate it.

When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Headmaster Alvis got to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Great Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard.

"So!" Headmaster Alvis said, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered," ("Hmph!" Ragnar said, crossing his arms) "I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.

"Our caretaker, Mildew the Unpleasant, has asked me to inform you all that the list of objects forbidden inside the fort has recently been extended to include such objects as Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty seven items, if I recall correctly, and copies can be found in your house common rooms, if anyone would like to check it."

The corners of Alvis' mouth twitched slightly. He continued, "As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Berksmeade to all below third year.

"It is also my painful duty to inform you that, unfortunately, the Inter-House Dragon Racing Cup will not be taking place this year."

Gasps filled the Great Hall.

" _What?_ " Hiccup exclaimed, not quite believing what he had heard. He looked around at Double and Trouble, his fellow members of the Gryffindor Dragon Racing team. They were mouthing soundlessly at Alvis, apparently too appalled to speak.

Alvis went on, "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Berk—"

But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.

A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black travelling cape. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the staff table.

A dull _clunk_ echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Alvis. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Raghilda let out an audible gasp.

The lightning had thrown the man's face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike any Hiccup had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what a human face was supposed to look like, and who was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man's eyes that made him frightening.

One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, entirely independent of the other, normal-looking eye—and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man's head, so that all they could see was whiteness.

The stranger reached Alvis. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Alvis shook it, muttering words that Hiccup couldn't hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head and replied in an undertone. Alvis nodded sympathetically and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.

The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark grey hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what little was left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Great Hall and the students.

"May I introduce our new Combat Arts teacher?" Alvis said brightly into the silence. "Torhild the Vigilant."

It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clapped except Alvis and Phlegma, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Torhild's bizarre appearance to do much more than stare at him.

"Torhild?" Hiccup muttered to Astrid. "Torhild the Vigilant? The one your dad went to help this morning?"

"Must be," Astrid said in a low, awed voice.

"What happened to him?" Ragnar whispered, his earlier anger forgotten. "What happened to his _face_?"

"Don't know," Astrid whispered back, watching Torhild eat with a morbid sort of fascination.

Torhild seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the tankard of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his cape, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long drink from it. As he lifted his arm, his cape was pulled a few inches from the ground, and Hiccup saw, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.

Alvis cleared his throat. "As I was saying," he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Torhild, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for well over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Thawfest Tournament will be taking place at Berk this year."

"You're JOKING!" Trouble said loudly.

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Torhild's arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Alvis chuckled appreciatively.

"I am not joking, Mr. Hofferson," he said, "though now that you mention it, I _did_ hear a rather excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a wood elf who all go into a bar…"

Phlegma the Fierce cleared her throat loudly.

"Er—but maybe this is not the time…no…" Alvis said, "where was I? Ah yes, Thawfest…well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who _do_ know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.

"The Thawfest Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago, as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of magic: the Berk Dragon Academy, the Bog Burglars Academy, and the Mogadon Institute. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young Vikings and Valkyries of different nationalities—until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

" _Death toll?_ " Ragnar said, looking alarmed. But his anxiety did not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Great Hall; many of them were whispering excitedly to one another, and Hiccup himself was far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago.

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Alvis continued, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.

"The heads of the Bog Burglars and Mogadon will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Thawfest Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

"I'm going for it!" Double hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Berk champion. At every House table, Hiccup could see people either gazing raptly at Alvis, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Alvisspoke again, and the Great Hall quieted once more.

"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Thawfest Cup to Berk," he said, "the heads of the participating schools, along with the Dragon Ministry, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age—that is to say, seventeen years or older—will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This"—Alvis raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the Hofferson twins were suddenly looking furious—"is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Berk's champion." His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over Double and Trouble's mutinous faces. "I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.

"The delegations from Bog Burglars and Mogadon will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your wholehearted support to the Berkian champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

Alvis sat down again and turned to talk to Torhild. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall.

"They can't do that!" Double said angrily. He had not joined the crowd moving toward the door, but was standing up and glaring at Alvis. "We're seventeen in April, why can't we have a shot?"

"They're not stopping me from entering," Trouble said stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. "The champions'll get to do all sorts of stuff you'd never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!"

"Come on," Ragnar said, "we'll be the only ones left here if you don't move."

Hiccup, Ragnar, Raghilda, Astrid, Double and Trouble all set off for the entrance hall, Double and Trouble debating the ways in which Alvis might stop those who were under seventeen from entering the tournament.

"Who's this impartial judge who's going to decide who the champions are?" Hiccup said.

"Dunno," Double said, "but it's them we'll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it, Trouble…"

"But Alvis knows you're not of age," Astrid pointed out.

"He's not the one who decides who the champion is, though, is he?" Trouble said shrewdly. "Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he'll choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Alvis is trying to stop us giving our names because they won't."

"People have died, though!" Ragnar said in a worried voice as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase.

"Yeah," Double said airily, "but that was years ago, wasn't it? Anyway, where's the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Astrid, what if we find out how to get around Alvis? You fancy entering?"

Astrid paused, mulling the question over. "I don't know, honestly. It _would_ be cool…and we could certainly use the money…but…"

"But what?" Trouble said. "Come on sis, don't tell me you're _scared_."

Astrid's face reddened; on instinct, Hiccup grabbed her arm, preventing her from punching her older brother in the face.

"I'm _not_ scared," she said hotly. "I'm just…not sure it's worth the risk."

"Uh-huh," Double said, smirking at his twin. " _Sure_."

"Why you little—"

"This'll be our stop, Astrid," Raghilda said suddenly, speaking for the first time since Torhild's arrival.

They had reached the top of the staircase, which opened into the middle of a hallway. Raghilda was pointing in the direction opposite where the Gryffindors were going, where a separate, largely unknown dormitory was located.

This dormitory was where Astrid and Raghilda slept. Raghilda, being a Völva who had been raised in relative seclusion, was uncomfortable in large groups of people, and had thus been granted a place of her own. At Alvis' request, Astrid stayed there with her, so that the girl was not entirely alone. This was largely how the two had become friends in the first place.

Hiccup had never been inside of the dormitory (no one but the girls were allowed in), but from Astrid he knew that it was basically a smaller version of the Gryffindor dormitory, save for the fact that there was only one bedroom instead of seven.

"Right," Astrid said, glaring at her brothers. "See you tomorrow," she said to Hiccup, giving him a quick hug before she and Raghilda went down the hall.

Hiccup, Ragnar, Double and Trouble continued on their way, eventually making it to the entrance of Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.

"Password?" she said as they approached.

"Balderdash," Trouble said, "a prefect downstairs told me."

The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular common room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Ragnar cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Hiccup distinctly heard him mutter "Slave labor" once again.

Hiccup and Ragnar climbed up the last, spiral staircase until they reached their own dormitory, which was situated at the top of the tower. Five four-poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner’s trunk at the foot. Fishlegs, Brandir, and Tuffnut were already getting into bed; Brandir had pinned his Ireland rosette to his headboard, and Tuffnut had tacked up a poster of Thuggory over his bedside table.

Hiccup and Ragnar got into their pajamas and into bed. Someone—a house-elf, no doubt—had placed warming pans between the sheets. It was extremely comfortable, lying there in bed and listening to the storm raging outside.

"Would you go for it?" Ragnar asked quietly. "The tournament, I mean? If you could?"

Hiccup shrugged. The tournament certainly sounded exciting, but he had already had what could be called "exciting" adventures, and they weren't exactly events he was eager to relieve.

No, Hiccup thought, rolling over in bed, the tournament would be a lot more fun to watch than to participate in. Let someone else risk their life; he was happy to just be a spectator. A normal student, for once.

And before long, Hiccup was sound asleep.

* * *

**Oh, Hiccup.**

**You should really know better by now.**

**Highlight of chapter: The interaction between Gustav and Gunilla. I like cute family bonding moments (which is weird, considering how little of them I actually write)**

**Updates _will_ be continuing as normal, I promise. Just, ah, don't get too mad if I miss a day here and there. It sucks, but I have to prioritise my own mental health over updates.**

**And...that's about it. See you guys next Monday!**


End file.
